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"Bur  BOSSY  WAS  STRANGUN'  TO  HEATH  AN'  SHI.  jt  s' HI.D  TO  c< 
UP  TO  i;i.o\\." 


SKID  PUFFER 


A  TALE  OF  THE  KANKAKEE  SWAMP 


ILLUSTRATED   BY 
F.  T.  RICHARDS   AND   VICTOR    PERARD 

and  from  Photographs  of  Scenery 


NEW  YORK 

HENRY  HOLT  AND  COMPANY 
1910 


COPYRIGHT,  1910 

BY 

HENRY  HOLT  AND  COMPANY 


Published  March,  IQIO 


PREFACE 

THE  manuscript  of  the  first  part  of  this  book  has 
lain  in  my  office  desk  for  many  years.  In  its  original 
form  it  contained  only  the  tales  of  old  Pufferland  on 
the  south  central  border  of  the  great  Kankakee  swamp. 
There  I  passed  many  happy  hunting  vacations  which 
will  ever  remain  among  my  dearest  pleasures  of 
memory. 

I  am  a  retired  business  man  unskilful  in  writing 
and  often  I  am  hard  put  to  it  to  make  my  unfacile 
pen  travel  blithely  enough  along  my  halting  lines. 
When  I  first  recorded  these  tales  by  Skid  Puffer  I  had 
no  thought  of  telling  the  rest  of  the  story  of  his  life, 
to  which  these  are  but  the  anticipatory  chapters  and 
the  book  itself  but  the  foreword  of  a  life  worth 
while.  I  have  no  literary  dreams  and  did  not  think 
I  could  be  persuaded  to  lead  them  out  into  the  hard 
glare  of  the  world. 

I  can  not  help  feeling  a  little  abashed  even  yet, 
when  in  the  stiller  hours  I  see  that  I  am  so  unduly 
at  the  front  of  the  narration,  and  know  too  that  I 
have  uncovered  so  brazenly  the  raw  bones  of  identity 
of  old  Pufferland.  Yet  I  can  see  no  other  way. 
That  was  a  long  time  ago  when  with  endless  amuse- 
ment but  ever  wary  ear  I  transcribed  these  first  chap- 
ters soon  after  they  came  from  Skid  Puffer's  lips. 


iv  Preface 

You  may  find  a  few  words  and  phrases  in  the  swamp 
vernacular  which  at  first  sight  in  print  may  appear 
odd  or  worse,  but  if  you  will  bend  the  sympathetic 
ear  you  will  discover  that  even  the  most  uncouth  are 
of  ancient  and  most  patrician  ancestry. 

Modern  commercialism,  with  its  ditches,  canals 
and  bridges,  its  dredgers,  railroads,  highways  and 
farm  machinery,  has  transformed  and  transfigured  old 
Pufferland.  Abe  Puffer  has  gone  to  his  "  Gret  Si- 
lens  " ;  the  Indiana  Greysons  are  far  more  than 
an  empty  name;  and  the  hero  himself  has  long  been 
regarded  as  a  great  and  favorite  son.  The  world- 
old  Sand-ridge,  once  clung  to  by  all  Pufferdom,  which 
struck  like  a  defiant  spear  into  the  heart  of  the  great 
swamp,  is  withered  and  wasted  away  to  its  very 
bones.  Now  the  region  is  clothed  with  vast,  shining 
cornfields,  long  hayfields  and  lawnlike  meadows, 
blooming  orchards  and  noble  farms.  But  even  yet 
there  obtrudes  the  squat  outline  of  the  Ridge,  which 
seems  like  a  tumbled  epitaph  of  some  secret  miseries 
too  deep  to  tell,  of  some  glories  that  will  forever 
endure. 

I  acknowledge  gratefully  the  gift  of  some  fine  cuts 
illustrating  the  Sonoyta  paradise  in  the  Sonoran  des- 
ert. These  are  from  that  silent  worker  for  posterity, 
Dr.  Trembly  MacDougal  of  the  Carnegie  Desert 
Laboratory  at  Tucson.  Some  of  the  most  pregnant 
botanical  work  of  modern  times  is  being  accomplished 
there.  I  am  greatly  indebted  to  the  noted  California 
librarian,  Charles  Samuel  Greene,  for  translations 
and  reference  helps,  and  to  his  able  assistant,  Miss 


Preface  v 

J.  M.  Fenton,  I  tender  my  sincere  thanks  for  securing 
for  me  invaluable  governmental  data  as  to  maps  and 
other  topographical  details  that  for  a  time  seemed 
an  almost  insurmountable  difficulty. 

One  word  more,  the  deepest  in  meaning :  I  inscribe 
this  first  volume  of  Skid  Puffer's  life  to  Henry  J. 
Bamford  of  Wisconsin,  but  for  whose  kindly  counsel, 
brotherly  sympathy,  fine  taste  and  unswerving  con- 
fidence and  help  this  work  would  have  been  im- 
possible. 


CONTENTS 

BOOK  I 
PUFFERLAND 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.    THE  SANDHILL  ROAD  OF  PUFFERDOM   ....  3 

II.    THE  RISE  OF  THE  PUFFERS n 

III.  THE  LAST  OF  THE  PUFFERS      ......  17 

IV.  OL'    SIM    PUFFER 27 

V.    ABE  PUFFER'S  ASH-HOPPER 31 

VI.    THE   PENNYROIL  CALF 41 

VII.    THE  RORYBILIUS 55 

VIII.    A  MEMBER  OF  THE  PUFFER  FAMILY      ....  72 

IX.    THE  GENTLE  Miss  MORGAN 81 

X.    A  PUFFERLAND  JAGGO  LANTERN 91 

XI.      A    KlTTIECLYSM IO2 

XII.    THE  EYES  OF  A  FRIEND 115 

XIII.  ANGELINA    PUFFER 124 

XIV.  TAKING  THE  BULL  BY  THE  FOOT 130 

XV.    ROSES,  MILK  AND  GOLD 138 

BOOK   II 
AT  THE  GREYSONS' 

I.    WHEN  THE  CORTEGE  MOVED 153 

II.    THE  SWAMP  ANGEL 160 

III.  A  SWAMP  CARDINAL  FLOWER 170 

IV.  THINGS  'ITH  ME  Is  KIND  o'  MIXED     ....  175 

vii 


viii  Contents 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

V.  ENGLISH  AS  IT  MAY  BE  WRITTEN 183 

VI.  WHEN  THE  MEADOW  LARK  BOILED        ....  196 

VII.  TIME  AND  TIDE  WAIT  FOR  No  MAN      ....  203 

VIII.  THE  MORTAL  ILLNESS  OF  ALICE  GREYSON      .      .      .  223 

IX.  A  SNAPPING  BLUE  DIAMOND 228 

X.  A  CRY  IN  THE  NIGHT 236 

XI.  THE  BLACK  DEVIL 248 

XII.  WHEN  A  MAN  DOES  His  DUTY 262 

XIII.  THE  LIGHTS  SHONE  ON  FAIR  WOMEN  AND  BRAVE 

MEN        .; 269 

XIV.  ALONG  THE  EDGES  OF  DANGER 275 

XV.  THE  LOCKSTEP 280 

BOOK  III 
THE  DESERT 

I.  CRYPTOGRAMS  AND  LETTERS 291 

II.  SKID'S  LETTER  TO  TOOTSIE 308 

III.  THE  PUFFER  CUT-OFF 318 

IV.  EL  CAMINO  DEL  DIABLO 332 

V.  THE  DEVIL'S  PARADISE 344 

VI.  THE  BATTLE  IN  THE  CUL-DE-SAC 349 

VII.  IN   SHACKLES 359 

VIII.  WHAT  HAS  BECOME  OF  SKID  PUFFER?    ....  365 

IX.  A  HERO'S  RETURN 372 

X.  THE  CURTAIN   FALLS        ,      , 377 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

"But  BOSSY  WAS  STRANGLIN'  TO  DEATH  AN"  SHE  jus'  HED 

TO  COME  UP  TO  BLOW  " Frontispiece 

FACING 
FACE 

"  NEN    CLUCK   WENT  PLUMB  CRAZY  " 78 

THE   SONOYTA   RIVER 291 

THE  DEAD  TOWN  OF  SANTO  DOMINGO 318 

WHERE  THE  SONOYTA  RIVER  SINKS  NEAR  AGUA  DULCE      .  326 

"  SKID  PUFFER  WAS  ON  THE  HAIR-LINE  EDGE  OF  LIFE  AND 

DEATH" 350 

MAPS 

THE  GREAT  PUFFER  CUT-OFF 329 

THE  DEVIL'S  TRAIL .336 


BOOK  1 
PUFFERLAND 


CHAPTER  I 
THE  SANDHILL  ROAD  OF  PUFFERDOM 

PUFFERLAND  for  many  generations  had  been  a 
barely  habitable  region  on  the  north  end  of  a  sand- 
ridge  that  at  the  farthest  reach  dipped  into  the  Kan- 
kakee  swamp.  Throughout  almost  its  entire  way 
it  was  branded  by  the  Sandhill  road. 

The  road  started  somewhere  in  southern  White 
county  among  the  crisscross  of  roadways,  among 
meadows,  orchards,  cornfields  and  forests,  dotted 
with  homes.  It  fielded  its  way  with  uncertainty 
across  vast  hayfields,  over  lower  rangelands  inter- 
spersed with  reedy  lakes  and  open-faced,  shining 
sloughs;  then  the  crossways  failing,  it  progressed  on- 
ward and  upward  through  tussocky  seas  of  unfenced 
grazing  lands.  When  at  last  the  grass-stump  levels 
changed  gradually  to  oozy  fens  alongside  the  road 
embankment,  the  Ridge  itself  rose  like  a  monster  out 
of  its  sodden  sleep  and  stood  up,  verdure-covered 
and  stony-ribbed  for  the  next  thirty  miles.  And 
this  famous  Sandhill  road,  commencing  in  the  far-off 
farms  to  the  south,  ended  at  Abe  Puffer's  big  farm- 
yard gate, — Squire  Puffer,  the  noblest  Roman  of 
them  all. 

For  a  few  leagues  after  the  Ridge  was  reached 

3 


4  Pufferland 

the  ancient  wagon  trail  struggled  obliquely  upward 
on  the  western  side  from  the  worthless  willows  and 
gaunt  water  elms,  past  small  grubbed-out  farms, 
through  bosomy  fields  and  meadows  and  hilly  or- 
chards, all  becoming  less  significant  and  less  happy 
with  each  traveled  mile. 

Yet  still  scaling  the  Ridge,  the  wagon  road  went 
through  dense  shrubberies  of  chaste-skinned  buckeyes, 
dogwood  and  birch  that  hooded  the  way.  Then 
gradually  came  in  the  stately,  dark-boled  tupeloes, 
burly,  moss-bearded  bur-oaks,  haggish  shellbark  hick- 
ories, robust  walnut  groves,  dark  reaches  of  sugar 
maple  with  forlorn  deserted  sugar  camps  until  the 
very  high  places  were  attained.  There  in  their 
cameo  barks  of  whitish  gray  the  tremendous  white 
oaks  lorded  over  the  forest  grandeur  for  twenty 
miles.  A  few  miles  further  on  is  where  in  all  de- 
cency the  Sandhill  road  should  have  stopped. 

But  the  Sandhill  road  did  not  stop  there ;  it  wound 
on  and  on  through  slowly  decrescent  growths.  The 
trees  became  smaller,  shorter,  scrubbier;  thickety  up- 
risings of  worthless  shrubberies  came  on,  and  there 
were  open  places  where  the  sunlight  shone  in  bra- 
zenly. Now  and  then  a  gaunt  ledge  raced  along 
the  roadway,  sneaking  out  into  sunny  places  in  the 
impoverished  soil,  diving  in  again  among  the  pinched 
grass,  beggar-lice,  mole  runs  and  mounds.  The 
stone-nnned  top  of  the  Ridge  was  covered  with  stub- 
born, enfamined  growths  and  down  its  long  slopes 
there  were  hideous  black  stumps  and  contorted  boles, 
death  marks  of  earlier  swamp  fires. 


The  Sandhill  Road  of  Pufferdom          5 

As  the  jolty  road  progressed,  more  sterile  and 
more  infecund  became  the  scene.  The  prosperous 
little  farms  at  the  beginning  of  the  rise  on  the  edge 
of  the  Ridge  changed  to  less  inviting  and  sadder 
ones.  The  airily  graceful  windmills  were  succeeded 
by  pumps,  then  by  well-sweeps,  then  by  reedy  water 
holes.  The  sleek  stock  in  farmerlike  inclosures  after 
a  time  gave  way  to  big-headed,  pot-bellied  colts,  bony, 
harness-marked  horses,  woolly,  flat-bodied  steers  and 
bony-cornered  cows.  Contented  pasture  cattle  were 
displaced  by  burry  sheep,  ugly  goats  and  sharp- 
backed,  unherded  swine.  And  as  the  road  extended, 
more  numerous  and  more  worthless  became  the  curs. 

After  the  prosperous  looking  cottages,  the  smaller 
houses,  cabins,  shanties,  huts  came  in,  parasitic  nests 
scratched  out  in  half-hidden  spots  on  the  clay  polls 
of  the  Ridge.  Down  on  the  flattish  places  between 
the  upper  places  of  the  Ridge  and  the  inclusive  ten- 
tacles of  the  swamp,  bedeviled  timber  still  had  way. 
Who  lived  in  the  cabins  and  shanties  and  huts,  their 
ways  and  means  and  social  status,  the  middle  names 
of  the  babies  down  to  the  names  of  the  animal  pets, 
no  one  knew  in  all  of  its  intricacy  so  well  as  the 
widow  of  Jelly  Puffer,  who  kept  the  Pufferland  store. 

In  a  stray  knoll  of  scrub  oaks  surrounding  the 
saloon,  the  post-office  and  the  watering  trough  was 
the  general  store,  the  loafing  place  and  the  beginning 
of  Pufferland.  From  the  high  places  not  far  from 
the  white  oaks  a  vein  of  water  ran  under  the  penury 
of  the  land  and  emerging  at  the  store  poured  un- 
ceasingly throughout  the  year. 


6  Pufferland 

A  hundred  cow-trails  and  footpaths  converged 
at  this  glory  spot  of  Pufferdom — "  the  store."  A 
few  miles  further  on  the  road  sank  down  to  the  lower 
stretches  to  avoid  the  unburied  backbone  of  the 
Ridge.  There  were  yet  thickets  and  shrubs,  more 
stunted  and  of  meaner  worth,  fields  of  ragweed,  open 
patches  of  Spanish-needles  and  beggar-lice ;  up  by  the 
unfenced  road  with  its  jolting  ruts  were  blotches  of 
thistles,  sparse  clutches  of  velvet  mulleins  and  ragged 
camps  of  naked  rocks.  Then  the  Puffer  schoolhouse 
at  the  "  Crossins  "  came  into  view.  Far  down  on 
the  west  side  was  an  estray  forest  of  butternuts,  wal- 
nuts and  hickories  and  on  the  opposite  side  of  the 
Ridge  stood  the  only  scrub  oak  and  crooked  maple 
timber  for  a  dozen  miles. 

The  bisecting,  rooty  road  at  the  Crossins  led 
down  westward  to  the  rangelands  on  the  flats  of  the 
swamp  and  extended  eastward  in  commingling  ways 
to  the  firewood  clearings  and  to  a  degenerate  sugar 
camp  stingily  holding  on. 

The  old  Puffer  schoolhouse  held  sway  in  a  level 
of  scrawny  black  oaks  twisted  by  earlier  swamp  fires. 
A  stick  and  stone  chimney  crowned  with  a  rusted, 
leaning  stovepipe,  seemed  to  tie  the  worn  out  build- 
ing to  its  dominion  of  inhospitable  Pufferland. 

This  cross  road  by  the  schoolhouse  was  the  south 
boundary  of  Abe  Puffer's  three-thousand-acre  farm. 
Here  the  sterile  soil  was  washed  to  its  farming  dregs. 
The  swamp  pillage  was  complete.  On  either  side 
were  beggary  stretches  of  sandburs,  infertile  clumps 
of  wire  grass,  patches  of  worn  out  brambles  not 


The  Sandhill  Road  of  Pufferdom         7 

knee-high,  thickets  of  debased  hazel  bushes,  bald 
acres  of  white  clay,  skinny  ribs  of  ledges,  and  inter- 
vening acreages  of  wasted,  naked  soil. 

Above  the  home  the  Ridge  extended  nakedly  two 
miles  further  on,  and  slipped  into  the  engulfing  wastes 
of  the  Kankakee  swamp.  But  Squire  Puffer's  three 
thousand  acres  had  two  striking  merits,  perhaps 
three :  the  two-hundred-acre  swamp  strip,  the  famous 
Puffer  five-inch  spring  and — Skid  Puffer. 

The  strip  of  swamp  was  not  more  than  eighty  rods 
wide  at  its  greatest  breadth.  It  was  a  bed  of  tropical 
richness, — the  soil  loot  from  the  higher  places  and 
a  conquest  of  the  edge  of  the  swamp.  A  crowded 
wall  of  huge  willows  forming  a  levee  five  feet  high, 
held  the  strip  on  its  western  side  from  the  maw  of 
the  swamp.  A  seven-strand,  barb  wire  fence  pro- 
tected its  eastern  side  from  the  ravages  of  the  ever 
hungry  denizens  of  Pufferland.  This  inhospitable 
fence  was  not  only  the  most  reputable  one  on  Abe 
Puffer's  farm,  but  was  the  only  horse-high,  bull- 
strong,  pig-tight  fence  in  all  Pufferland. 

Abe  Puffer  was  proud  of  the  fence,  but  he  was 
still  prouder  of  the  strip.  Many  a  night  after  the 
hunters  came,  when  the  embers  in  the  five-foot  fire- 
place were  low,  a  little  prodding  at  his  genial  soul 
let  in.  stories.  Once — before  my  coming — he  told 
about  his  wonderful  "  Strip." 

"  I  tell  you  Genral,  I  hev  saw  some  o'  the  bigges' 
punkins,  leas'  onct,  es  ever  lay  like  a  clump  o'  gol'  din 
the  sun  on  a  frosty  mornin'.  Onct  I  hed  a  yearlin' 
shoat  es  was  lost  an'  wher  d'you  'spect  I  found  'im, 


8  PufYerland 

hugh?  'E'd  et  a  hole  in  the  furside  of  a  punkin, 
one  o'  the  bigges'  punkins  o'  course,  nen  et  inside  big 
'nough  so's  'e  could  turn  'roun'  'thout  mussin'  'is 
tail.  It  was  jus'  ta  whopper."  All  of  us  agreed 
with  him.  "  Anether  time  I  missed  a  four  year  ol' 
heifer  an'  hunted  two  whole  days  fer  'er,  thinkin' 
mebby  she  was  fast  in  the  quicksan'  som'ers.  An' 
wher  do  you  s'pect  I  found  her?  Just  inside  of  a 
cabbitch  perfec'ly  hid.  She  hed  et  a  stall  in  'bout 
four  foot  an'  it  was  too  shy  fer  'er  to  turn  'roun'. 
An'  ther  she  was  wher  mos'  nobody  could  find  'er. 
Lord-a-mighty  sech  cabbitches  's  nough  to  scare  a 
feller." 

The  "  General  "  had  eagle  eyes,  a  most  irruptive 
temper  and  exceedingly  bluff  ways  on  such  occasions 
and  had  a  fierce  way  of  subduing  with  an  authorita- 
tive glance  any  snickering  hunter  who  dared  to 
assume  any  other  mien  than  the  gravest  dissimu- 
lation. 

"Tell  about  those  turnips  squire;  you  remember 
you  and  I  dug  out  the  first  year  I  came.  Hugh? 
Don't  remember?  Yes  you  do,"  and  the  General  by 
his  reproachful  astonishment  forced  a  tale  of  turnips 
on  the  squire. 

"  Oh  yes;  so  I  do.  I'd  forgot  thet.  Them  was 
turnips  es  was  turnips  an'  no  mistake.  The  Genral 
an'  me  boys,  spadin'  'bout  a  nour  dug  out  jus'  three. 
Nen  we  put  two  'ith  ther  tails  up  and  one  'ith  its  tail 
down  in  a  soap  kittle  and  efter  pourin'  in  'bout  half 
a  pint  o'  water  wich  most  of  it  run  over,  they  jus' 
zactly  filled  the  whole  geedanged  kittle.  An'  wat's 


The  Sandhill  Road  of  Pufferdom          9 

more  it  was  n't  sech  a  swell  seasing  fer  turnips  either, 
ner  was  it  sech  a  gosh  blimmity  small  kittle." 

"And  the  corn  squire;  for  heaven's  sake  are  you 
forgetting  the  corn  year?  Heavens!  Is  your  mem- 
ory going  back  on  you  ?  "  A  new  hunter  was  stabbed 
with  a  hot  glance. 

"  Oh  evrybody  fer  forty  mile  knows  'bout  thet 
gret  corn  year.  Ther  was  never  less  'an  two  er  three 
years  on  evry  stalk  an'  da  nubbin'  so  goshblimmity 
big  es  'd  break  down  the  stalk  'ith  its  heft.  Thet 
was  the  time  I  foun'  da  year  thet  hed  an  odd  row  o' 
grains  on  it,  th'  ony  one  ever  seen  roun'  the  whole 
earth.  I  tell  you  gentlemen,  y'  ony  hed  to  tickle 
the  belly  o'  thet  strip  most  any  year  and  it'd  fairly 
ro-o-ar  'ith  abundans." 

Squire  Puffer  was  no  fool  to  be  laughed  at  when 
he  seriously  told  what  that  swamp  strip  had  done  for 
him.  Before  I  came  he  was  telling  what  the  crop 
of  pumpkins  had  yielded  one  famous  year  and  a  new 
huntsman  snickered  out  into  Abe  Puffer's  face.  And 
Abe  Puffer,  who  had  told  the  same  tale  long  enough 
to  believe  in  it,  felt  insulted  with  the  snicker  and  had 
slapped  the  hunter  over. 

And  that  famous  Puffer  five-inch  spring!  I  could 
vouch  for  it.  Out  of  a  five-inch  iron  pipe  from  a 
half  hidden,  vine  covered  ledge  the  water  tumbled 
in  musical  vigor  into  a  huge  walled  pool  under  a 
willow  with  a  sixty-foot  spread.  The  drouths  of  sum- 
mer, the  cold  of  winter,  the  torrents  of  spring  could 
not  diminish  its  volume,  silence  its  singing,  or  stain 
its  delicious  flood.  It  boiled  up  in  the  pool  in  dark 


io  Pufferland 

whirls  of  shadowy  coolness,  then  raced  in  tumult 
through  the  stone  milkhouse  to  the  slough.  The 
stream  ran  for  two  miles  under  a  hooded  way  of 
willows  till  at  last  it  mingled  with  the  ooze  of  the 
swamp. 

The  home  sat  squat  in  a  reach  of  black  oaks,  ac- 
companied by  a  stringing  litter  of  sheds,  bins,  a  tool- 
house,  a  blacksmith  shop,  a  greasy  smokehouse,  a  dirt 
cellar  and  two  summerhouses.  One  was  mostly  of 
screens  and  netting,  the  other  (of  dear  memory)  was 
of  morning  glory  vines.  Before  the  hunters  came, 
there  were  several  sorry  looking  patches  and  gardens 
long  gone  to  neglect,  wasted  fence  inclosures,  brushy 
orchards,  and  a  huge  dooryard  raggedly  covered  with 
plantains  and  knot  grass,  pasturage  at  times  for  poul- 
try, geese  and  swine  to  the  very  doors. 

The  oak-log  barn,  partially  denuded  of  its  shakes, 
sat  stumpishly  on  guard  at  the  big  gate,  its  south  side 
filled  with  ten  thousand  tiny  woodpecker  holes  that 
once  had  held  each  a  cherry  seed  or  a  grain  of  corn. 
Behind  it  was  the  swine  yard,  one-third  of  its  extent 
a  forest  of  rank-smelling  "  Jimson  weeds."  Only 
in  the  fattening  season  when  hunger  was  appeased 
were  the  hog  lot  fences  able  to  stand  unbreached. 
Chasing  the  hogs  back  out  of  the  yards  and  half 
protected  patches  was  a  frequent  clamor  of  shouts, 
barking  dogs  and  squeals  of  pain.  At  least  this 
was  true  till  the  educational  influence  of  the  General 
prevailed. 


CHAPTER  II 
THE  RISE  OF  THE  PUFFERS 

THIS  is  Skid  Puffer's  description  of  the  origin  of 
the  Pufferland  clan.  I  have  thought  best  in  his 
longer  narrations  to  omit  quotation  marks  except 
where  he  quotes  himself  or  others.  After  I  got  his 
confidence  Skid  Puffer  told  me  at  different  times  per- 
haps a  thousand  tales.  This  is  the  first  that  I  re- 
member: 

Onct  there  was  a  half  kilt  ol'  she  bear  'ith  'er  litter 
es  was  chased  an'  chased  from  the  cornfiel's  es  she 
was  aruinin'  way  down  on  the  north  side  o'  Tippe- 
canoe  county.  She  was  chased  an'  chased  from  the 
cornfiel's  an'  taller  timber  out  into  White  county  into 
the  smaller  timber,  nen  through  the  lower  saplin's 
into  the  littler  thickets,  allus  goin'  north  'long  the 
Ridge. 

She  was  a  rootin'  'ith  'er  nine  little  she-bears  w'en 
she  was  discovered  by  ol'  Ager  Puffer.  He  shot  'er 
through  the  vitals  an'  the  arrer  went  through  'er 
an'  went  clean  up  to  the  hilt  into  a  slippery  ellum  on 
th'  ether  side.  Pop  says  the  arrer  was  still  a-stickin' 
in  the  tree  down  on  the  Battle  o'  Tippecanoe  campin' 
groun's  tell  a  few  years  ago.  An'  ef  Pop,  that's 
the  Squire,  he's  dead  now  an'  gone  to  the  Great  Si- 


12  Pufferland 

lens, — Pop  allus  said  "  Gret  Silens " — es  I  was 
tellin',  ef  Pop  didn't  know  about  thet  arrer  nobody 
knowed. 

So  nachurly  feelin'  painful  on  'er  insides  she  an' 
the  whole  kit  took  north.  An'  efter  aw'ile  goin' 
through  the  taller  thickets  o'  pawpaw  bushes  an' 
elderberries,  trailin'  over  the  ridges  an'  sandy 
stretches  an'  'roun'  hills  an'  crashin'  through  hazel 
bresh  follered  by  them  nine  little  bears,  their  tails 
a  hangin'  on  the  groun'  an'  their  tongues  a  lollin'  an' 
a  lollin'  fer  three  days  and  three  nights,  'ithout  a 
blessed  thing  to  eat  an'  not  a  drop  to  drink, — yes; 
they  did  hev  three  killdeer's  aigs  an'  half  a  quail 
nes', — wy  they  come  at  las'  plunk  up  agin  this  here 
Puffer  five  inch  spring. 

An'  ol'  Ager  Puffer  'ith  'is  nose  clost  to  the  groun' 
was  allus  follerin'  an'  never  quite  ketchin'  up.  So 
wen  they  all  come  to  the  spring  es  was  ro-olin'  an' 
atumblin'  like  fightin'  cats,  they  jus'  stopped  an'  ev'ry 
last  eternal  one  of  'em  drank  'emsevs  to  death. 

I  hev  heard  Pop  tell  thet  story  a  hundred  times, 
allus  diff'rint,  an'  de  allus  insisted  the  nine  little  bears 
was  she  bears  an'  thet  ther  tails  was  a  hangin'  on 
the  groun'. 

I  says  to  Pop  onct,  "  Pop  bears  don't  hev  tails 
es  hang  way  down  on  the  groun'."  Nen  Pop  ketched 
'imsef  up  fer  a  minute  an'  scratched  'is  hed  for  the 
point  to  get  in  clear,  an'  said,  "  Skid  them  bears  was 
diff'renter.  They  was  the  reglar  long-tailed  Puffer 
bear.  'Sides  ther's  the  ol'  San'hill  road  es  was 
blazed  by  them  bear  tails.  Thet's  evidence  es  won't 


The  Rise  of  the  Puffers  13 

rub  out.  Fax  is  fax  Skid.  Hist'ry  is  a  mighty  un- 
certain thing  anyways,  but  the  bears  es  discovered  this 
spring  hed  tails  mebby  three  foot  long  an'  mebby 
longer;  ther's  no  tellin'  about  the  Puffer  bear." 

So  allus  efter  thet  I  lef  the  tails  on  'em.  Wen 
my  grety,  grety-gret  gran' father's  gran' father  came 
a  snortin'  an'  a  sneezin'  efter  them  long  tailed, 
escapin'  bears,  Puffer  bears,  ther  they  was  all  swelled 
up  es  big  es  smokehouses  an'  their  laigs  a  stickin'  up 
into  the  sky.  An'  ev'ry  las'  eternal  one  of  'em  was 
perfec'ly  dead. 

It  was  so  pitiful  thet  ol'  Ager  jus'  set  down  an' 
bust  into  livin'  tears,  so  Pop  says.  'E  jus'  set  down 
like  all  the  ether  Puffers  an'  never  come  away.  An' 
here  'e  built  the  firs'  shed,  an'  lived  the  rest  of  'is 
born  days,  jus'  restin'  an'  eatin'  acorns  an'  shakin' 
'ith  the  jumpin'  yeller  ager.  Here  'is  descendens 
built  the  firs'  log  house,  an'  piled  sothin'  in  the  barn- 
yard es  was  broke  er  waitin'  to  be  used,  es  rails,  an' 
stakes,  an'  parts  an'  pieces  o'  wagons  an'  harrers,  an' 
plank  an'  machinery,  tell  at  las'  the  pile  was  twenty 
foot  high  an'  covered  'bout  a  nacre.  Nen  the  turkeys 
an'  chickens  got  to  roostin'  on  it  and  about  a  million 
rats  an'  skunks  an'  weasels  made  ther  sportin' 
prem'ses  there.  "  Sportin'  prem'ses  "  is  wat  Genral 
called  the  pile  las'  spring. 

Evry  Puffer  from  ol'  Ager  Puffer  down  to  the 
squire  hes  built  sothin'  an'  forgot  sothin',  an'  broke 
sothin',  an'  all  of  'em  hes  hed  a  few  swamp  grass 
stacks  to  rot.  An'  all  of  'em  hes  been  fightin'  back 
the  bresh  an'  little  starved  trees  'ith  grubbin'  pick 


14  Pufferland 

an'  fire  an'  restin'  mos'  o'  the  time,  tell  at  las'  here 
y'air  in  this  blessed  parydise  o'  Squire  Puffer  an'  'is 
beloved  son. 

Pop  said  wen  'e  come  on  the  vale,  Pop  allus  called 
it  vale,  thet  the  whole  place  was  ripped  up  to  the 
middle  and  run  down  at  both  en's  an'  sort  o'  noncom- 
bobbledefusticated  in  the  middle.  I've  heard  Pop 
use  words  es  long  as  yer  arm  'ithout  strainin'.  I  ast 
Pop  one  time  whut  the  first  Puffers  lived  on,  specially 
ol'  Ager  Puffer. 

"  Skid,"  says  Pop,  lookin'  critical,  "  whut  the 
devil  do  I  know  about  whut  them  ol'  ager  shakers 
lived  on  ?  It's  enough  fer  'is  descendens  to  keep  the 
record  from  agoin'  to  tateractums  'ithout  findin'  feed 
fer  'em.  I  spose  though,"  says  Pop,  shettin'  'is 
eyes  es  ef  'e  was  jus'  boun'  to  keep  hist'ry  straight 
anyways,  "  I  'spect  Ager  Puffer  lived  mos'ly  on  mast. 
He  didn't  live  long  noways,  fer  es  'e  was  the  firs' 
man  'long  here,  the  swamp  ager  jus'  leapt  on  'im 
like  a  tiger  on  a  buff'lo.  The  swamp  hed  been  waitin' 
fer  a  case  mebby  a  million  years  an'  the  dose  was 
partic'lar  piznous.  Ol'  Ager  Puffer  was  the  Adam 
of  Indiany  ager." 

"  Didn't  any  of  'em  ever  leave  this  vale  Pop?  "  I 
ast  'im  onct. 

"Yes;  one  fall  the  ager  eternally  prevailin'  in 
ther  vitals  an'  mebby  the  acorns  afailin',  ev'ry  las' 
one  of  'em  gatherin'  up  their  dogs  an'  cattle  an' 
childern  an'  mos'  o'  ther  wives,  they  took  to  the  ol' 
San'hill  road,  jus'  like  the  crusaders  back  to  ol' 
Jerusylum;  took  to  th'  ol'  bear  trail  Skid,  back  to 


The  Rise  of  the  Puffers  15 

civilization.  Ther  was  about  nine  hundred  of  'em, 
countin'  the  dogs.  An'  so  they  went  on  an'  on 
Skid,  fer  forty  days  an'  forty  nights,  tell  at  las' 
they  come  up  to  livin'  human  bein's  es  wasn't  allus 
a  shakin'  an'  ashiverin'  an'  aburnin'  up  'ith  ager. 

"  They  was  people  I  heard  es  hed  come  'roun'  the 
Horn  an'  hed  discovered  the  quinine  tree.  Nen  they 
et  an'  feasted  fer  nine  days  an'  nine  nights,  a  singin' 
an'  gloryfyin'  God,  an'  singin'  hosannas  to  the  qui- 
nine tree.  Nen  each  one  from  ol'  Zac  Puffer,  who 
was  eight  feet  tall  an'  so  big  thet  'e  never  did  hev 
ager  all  over  him  to  onct,  down  to  the  little  Puffers 
who  never  wore  clothes  'cept  in  winter  tell  they  was 
'bout  fifteen  years  ol',  wy  all  of  'em  slung  a  gunny- 
sackful  o'  quinine  on  ther  backs  an'  took  back  trail 
fer  home.  An'  here  they  came  singin'  an'  shoutin', 
'ith  banners  awavin',  praisin'  God  from  wich  all  bles- 
sin's  flow.  O'  course  Skid,  it  was  perfec'ly  nachural 
fer  'em  to  want  to  come  back  to  th'  ol'  stompin' 
groun's  an'  go  to  rootin'  agin  under  the  chinquapins 
an'  swiggin'  quinine. 

"  After  thet  Skid,  the  ager  didn't  shake  more'n 
half  a  dozen  ev'ry  year  into  the  ol'  buryin'  groun'. 
Ol'  Zac  was  the  firs'  to  go,  though.  'E  caught  seven 
er  eight  cases  of  ager  to  onct  fer  the  firs'  time  in 
diffrent  places  of  'is  system  an'  it  was  nentirely  too 
much  to  buck.  It  was  a  sort  o'  retribution  on  ol' 
Zac  fer  a'temptin'  to  lead  the  Puffers  out  o'  the  vale, 
mos'  ev'rybody  says." 

"  Skid,"  I  asked,  for  he  seemed  to  have  finished, 
"  why  will  human  beings  live  in  this  out  of  the  way 


16  Pufferland 

spot?  There's  a  stinking  endless  swamp  on  one  side 
and  starvation  on  the  other.  You  told  me  once  that 
the  crows  fly  down  to  Reynolds,  thirty  miles,  to  get 
three  grains  of  corn  for  breakfast, — why  three  I  don't 
know.  Didn't  the  Puffers  want  to  get  out  of  this 
living  desert?  " 

Es  Pop  said  at  the  literary  onct,  u  De  Gustavus 
Adolphus  non  dispustand  on,"  wich  means  some 
people  prefers  one  thing  an'  ethers  prefers  ether 
things.  I  ast  Pop  onct  jus'  wy  people  'ith  'is  intlec' 
lived  'roun'  here. 

"  Skid,"  'e  said  to  me,  "  De  Gustavus  Adolphus 
non  dispustand  on  '  an'  '  Honey  salt  key  mallypansy  ' 
— gosh  all  blimmity  how  does  thet  go?  Anyways 
it  means  ther's  no  disputin'  wether  acorns  er  pansies 
is  jus'  the  proper  rashsheoshenashun.  Some  people 
prefer  one  thing,  ether  folks  prefer  ether  things  an' 
ethers  b'lieve  in  tyin'  a  mole  skin  'ith  assafetiday  on 
a  string  'roun'  ther  neck  to  keep  the  devil  away. 
Them  kin'  genrally  sagashiate  'long  this  here  Ridge." 


CHAPTER  III 
THE  LAST  OF  THE  PUFFERS 

I  HAD  been  taking  my  hunting  vacations  at  the 
Puffers'  with  three  or  four  other  hunters  for  a  few 
seasons.  I  had  gained  the  confidence  of  the  son,  who 
was  now  eighteen  years  old.  The  little  summer- 
house  covered  with  morning  glory  vines  held  for  me 
many  a  happy  memory  of  bedtime  hours.  The 
Puffer  homestead  had  improved  in  material  aspects; 
the  prosperity  derived  in  greater  part  from  the  liberal 
purses  of  the  hunters  caused  new  palings  on  garden 
fences,  new  rails  around  patches,  new  shingles  on 
many  roofs,  and  the  hogs  and  chickens  which  often 
had  rooted  and  scratched  up  the  paths  and  dooryard 
to  the  doors  had  been  trained  in  better  manners  and 
were  now  secluded  in  their  appropriate  confines. 

I  had  'never  seen  Abe  Puffer,  he  having  died  a 
year  or  so  before  I  came  on  the  scene.  Skid  had 
told  me  that  his  father  "was  six  feet  four,  weighed 
two  fifty,  an'  could  hold  out  arm's  lenth  seventy-five 
poun's.  I  hev  seen  'im  jump  a  fourteen  han'  horse 
'ithout  tetchin'  an'  Jake  Spading,  thet's  Hi's  dad, 
he's  Dutch  tongue  tied,  wy  'e  tol'  me  he  once  heerd 
Pop  acallin'  the  hogs.  An'  the  way  'e  said  it  was: 
*  Ich  habbe  gehord  dine  fader  sombtimes  ven  the 

17 


1 8  Pufferland 

sky  ist  frosty  yit  makin'  de  hogs  callin'  yit  still,'  er 
sothin'  like  thet.  Jake  lives  four  miles  down  the 
San'hill  road  Clonel.  I've  saw  Pop  go  ten  mile  to 
doctor  a  sick  horse  et  night  'ithout  chargin'  a  cent 
an'  " — Skid's  eyes  closed  almost  shut — "  sometime 
the  horse  got  well.  Pop'd  never  let  on  wen  the 
neighbors  'd  come  in  an'  steal  Mom's  dishrag  wen 
ther  cows  'd  lost  ther  cuds. 

Two  things  Pop  was  mighty  good  in,  elocutin'  at 
the  literary  an'  flingin'  out  fereign  words,  some  es 
he  knowed  by  sight  and  ethers  by  soun'.  'E  hed  a 
book  'e  called  Hunderd  Selexyuns  'e  liked  to  read 
'bout  es  well  es  Mom  does  the  Bible.  It  took  a 
mighty  smart  man  to  tell  wen  Pop  allus  was  in 
earnes'.  Sometimes  'e'd  fool  even  Mom.  I  allus 
toF  by  a  wrinkle  'e  hed  on  'is  left  eye. 

Pop  allus  went  in  'is  bare  feet  tell  you  fellows 
come;  'e  was  getting  mos'  particular  'bout  nen.  An' 
Mom's  doin'  the  cookin'  of  'er  life.  Sence  then 
things  's  picked  up  wonderful. 

"  Skid,  what  has  become  of  that  immortal  barn- 
yard I  have  heard  so  much  about?  " 

Once  Genral  Torrence  bein'  mad  about  sothin', 
kin'  do  wantin'  to  bite  a  nail  head  off  fer  exercise, 
wy  'e  goin'  out  an'  lookin'  et  the  barn  y'd  says  to  Pop, 
"  Squire  whut'll  you  take  fer  yer  dam  barn  y'd?  " 

'  The  wich?  "  says  Pop,  s'prised  like. 

"  Wy  this  goldang  Puffer  curiosity  shop  o'  weasels, 
skunks,  henroosts  an'  genral  farm  deviltery.  It's 
been  settin'  out  ther  fer  nine  billion  years.  Speak 
up." 


The  Last  of  the  Puffers  19 

Pop  was  took  off'n  his  feet  it  was  so  sudden, 
specially  fer  any  livin'  human  bein'  jus'  awantin'  the 
geedanged  oF  contraption.  But  Pop  was  a  good 
dickerer;  nobody  'cept  Jelly  Puffer  ever  beat  Pop 
on  dickerin'.  And  Pop  hated  Jelly  worse'n  pizon 
er  rattlesnakes.  So  Pop  took  a  deep  breath  tryin' 
not  to  let  on  an'  watchin'  the  Genral  from  out'n  the 
sides  of  'is  eyes. 

"  Well,  aint  you  got  any  price  on  the  lousy  stuff?  " 
The  Genral  kin'  do  roared  thet.  Pop  jumped  spite 
of  'isef  cause  'e  could  n't  do  dickerin'  right  off'n  the 
handle.  Nen  Pop  begun  to  figger  up  an'  add  an' 
subtrac  an'  divide  an'  multiply  an'  extrac  the  cube 
root  an'  things.  But  'e's  wonderin'  bout  all  the  time 
whut  in  thunder  the  Genral  wanted  thet  geedanged 
deviltery  fer  an'  'bout  how  much  the  Genral  'd  stan' 
fer.  An'  'e's  doing  the  figgerin'  under  'is  breath  wen 
the  Genral  bust  out,  "Oh  blazes  an'  Tom  Walker! 
Aint  you  got  any  price?  D'you  think  yer  sellin'  the 
Looziana  Purchass?  D'you  want  to  can  up  this 
here  cussid  boorooloogoogaw  ?  Fire  an'  tow,  wat's 
yer  price?  "  He  fairly  hooped  thet  time. 

"  Wy  Genral,  seein's  it's  you  'bout  five  dol " — nen 
Pop  stopped  'e  was  so  shamed.  But  seein'  the  Gen- 
ral run  'is  han'  quick  into  'is  pocket  Pop  stopped. 
Nen  'e  took  a  new  start.  "  Five  dollars  an'  thir — " 

You  see  Pop  was  figgerin'  clost  on  the  cents. 
Nothin'  ever  got  away  from  Pop  on  a  dicker.  Nen 
Pop  rared  up  brazen  as  the  Genral  tore  'roun'  so 
mad  'e  could  n't  talk.  "  An'  thirty — "  an'  Pop 
stopped  once  more.  Save  'is  life  'e  did  n't  know 


20  Pufferland 

wether  to  tack  on  five  cents  more  'er  leggo  at  five 
thirty.  So  stickin  'is  pencil  in  'is  pocket  'e  said  shame- 
ful like,  "  Seein's  it's  you  Genral,  five  dollars  an' 
thirty — five."  Pop  kin'  do  busted  out  thet  las'  five. 

"  It's  my  rot  Abe.  Get  Spading,  Stickel  an'  teams 
an'  haul  the  whole  blankety,  blankety  blank  stuff," 
'e  said  blankety  blankety  blank  the  las'  time — the 
Genral  swears  ony  wen  'is  new  seven  hunderd  dollar 
bird  dog  goes  yoopin'  efter  a  rabbit  wen  it  ought  to 
be  pintin'  out  quail — "  take  the  whole  capoodle  out 
on  the  swamp  an'  burn  it  all  to  hell.  Here's  two 
five  dollar  pieces;  th'  extra  four  sixty  five  is  fer 
buryin'  the  ashes.  Hurry  fer  heaven's  sake." 

I  slep  in  th'  old'  house  then  an'  Pop  set  up  half 
the  night  talkin'  to  Mom  in  wispers  about  thet  ten 
dollars.  'E  said  just  es  like  es  not  'e  might  hev 
got  anether  ten  cents  ef  'e'd  ony  hung  on.  'E  felt 
mighty  blue  'bout  dickerin'  so  blamed  fas'. 

"What  did  your  father  do  with  all  that  money, 
Skid?" 

Pop  give  one  of  the  fives  to  Mom  sayin',  "Angie 
half  I  got's  yourn;  wen  I  turn  in  fer  the  '  Gret  Si- 
lens'  I  want  you  to  go  havers  'ith  Skid  fer  evrything 
on  the  whole  farm." 

Pufferland  was  a  huntsman's  paradise  for  water- 
fowl of  almost  every  description  and  the  solid  land 
borders  were  generous  with  snipe,  squirrels  and  quail. 
But  the  chief  delights  for  me  were  Skid's  stories  and 
the  cooking  of  Angelina  Puffer.  She  had  been  New 
England  bred  and  in  the  course  of  events  and  strange 


The  Last  of  the  Puffers  21 

vicissitudes  she  had  married  Abe  Puffer  and  had  long 
bloomed  unappreciated  in  Pufferland.  Her  acorn 
ham,  her  pork  tenderloin  sausage,  her  young  fried 
chicken  or  roasted  squirrel  set  before  a  hunter  on  an 
early  June  morning  are  very  tender  gustatory  mem- 
ories. Of  course  rich  milk,  eggs  and  butter,  cooled 
by  the  waters  of  the  famous  spring  under  the  willow's 
deep  shade  we  could  expect  at  any  time;  but  the 
ravishments  of  roasting  canvasback  or  the  savory 
odors  of  toasting  October  snipe  some  storm-filled 
evening  after  a  day's  hard  gunning  on  the  rangelands 
made  hunters  think  considerably  about  the  immor- 
tality of  cooks. 

On  a  frosty  evening  after -supper  was  over  and 
the  five-foot  fireplace  threw  its  glow  on  the  white  oak 
floor,  we,  at  peace  with  all  the  world  (domestic  and 
foreign)  because  of  Angelina  Puffer's  table,  would 
fill  our  pipes  and  settle  once  for  all  the  questions  of 
government  and  law  and  mix  amiably  in  celestial 
matters. 

Then  about  bedtime  Skid  and  I  would  withdraw 
to  our  little  summerhouse  of  the  morning  glory  vines 
close  by  the  slumbrous  music  of  the  famous  spring. 
Here  till  long  after  bedtime  hours  he  told  me  stories 
of  the  peculiar  doings  of  Pufferland. 

He  was  nearly  eighteen  years  of  age  when  I  first 
knew  him,  tall,  a  little  bent,  just  breaking  into  the 
form  of  muscular  manhood  with  its  awkwardness, 
lithe  as  a  weasel  and  strong  as  an  ox.  His  shoes, 
when  he  wore  any,  were  ugly  plow  shoes  and  covered 
calloused  red  feet  that  in  summertime  were  almost 


22  Pufferland 

as  impervious  to  hurt  as  the  hoof  of  a  horse.  His 
ill-fitting  clothes,  few  enough  at  any  time,  were  scant 
in  summer  and  always  two  sizes  too  large.  He 
never,  "  jus'  could  ketch  up  'ith  my  geedinged  close  " 
he  told  me  one  time.  From  his  shoulders  down  he 
rivaled  a  tramp  in  attire. 

But  Skid  Puffer  from  his  shoulders  up  was  a  differ- 
ent thing.  His  silky,  curling  hair,  unkempt  and  shin- 
ing like  a  crow's  wing,  hung  down  almost  to  his  dis- 
reputable shoulders.  His  face — ah,  Skid  Puffer's 
face !  It  was  as  much  out  of  place  in  that  sorry 
region  as  the  cardinal  flower  or  the  glorious  Nelumbo 
down  in  those  stinking  fens.  His  features  were 
cameo-like  in  beauty  and  clarity  of  outline,  whether 
they  were  smudged  with  Kankakee  dirt  or  not. 

His  great  dark  eyes — I  never  could  determine 
their  color — would  play  all  manner  of  magnetic  at- 
tractions as  they  glowed  or  flashed  with  the  ardor 
of  his  stories  or  wrinkled  almost  shut  in  the  cold 
satire  or  sly  irony  of  a  person  of  maturer  years.  His 
mind  was  as  impressionable  as  a  photographic  plate 
and  his  mobile  face  registered  all  the  moods  and 
emotions  of  a  strangely  noble  and  sensitive  soul. 

He  was  a  puzzle  from  the  first  moment  I  met  him, 
and  all  the  other  people  of  Pufferland  called  him  a 
silent  lad.  "  He  had  no  words  for  anybody,"  they 
told  me,  and  the  other  hunters  wondered  what  I 
found  to  attract  me  in  the  wordless,  shy  boy.  I 
had  often  wondered  how  he  would  look  in  decent 
attire,  with  his  locks  becomingly  barbered.  His 
features  at  their  best  in  color,  animation,  expression, 


The  Last  of  the  Puffers  23 

purity  and  nobility  of  line  were  the  most  perfect  I 
had  ever  seen. 

One  November  night  Skid  gave  the  genealogy 
of  the  most  prominent  saints  and  sinners  of  Puffer- 
land.  Being  in  a  discursive  mood  he  finished  his 
personal  round-up  with  the  current  records  of  Hink 
Stickel  and  Hi  Spading,  throwing  in  for  dessert  the 
architectural  puzzle  of  the  old  Puffer  home.  He 
said: 

The  big  Puffers,  not  countin'  Pop,  was  oP  Ager 
Puffer,  the  bear  chaser  who  lived  in  a  hole  in  the 
groun'.  Nex'  was  Gran'father  Zac,  not  Big  Zac 
thet  caught  eight  cases  o'  fever  an'  ager  to  onct. 
Gran'father  Zac,  Pop  says,  come  out  o'  the  Ark  an* 
hed  six  fingers  on  each  han'  an'  six  toes  on  each  foot. 
Pop  said  one  time,  he  wasn't  so  gol  dang  sure  but 
Zac  run  on  all  fours  mos'  o'  the  time.  Nen  followed 
Black  Puffer,  Red  Puffer,  Ol'  One  Eye  Puffer,  OP 
Deafandum  Puffer  who  hed  nineteen  children  which 
ate  raw  frogs.  Nen  ol'  Hoopin'  Puffer.  They  say 
he  could  imitate  a  thunder  pumper  so  slick  'at  all  'e 
hed  to  do  was  to  sneak  along  the  bank  o'  the  san' 
ridge  an'  go  to  yoopin'  an'  ahoopin'  an'  evry  blessed 
thunder  pumper  in  four  mile  'd  come  right  up  to 
'im  like  a  bluebird  into  a  black  snake's  mouth. 

Nen  come  ol'  gran'mother  Ann  Puffer,  the  singin' 
Puffer  who  had  visions.  She  could  cure  warts  by 
layin'  on  o'  hands;  she  invented  Knock-em-stiff  lina- 
men'  out  o'  lobelia  root,  wich  is  a  sure  cure  for  fits, 
mad-dog  bites,  worms,  horse  bots,  ringworms  an' 


24  Pufferland 

specially  concocted  fer  Wabash  scratches.  She  used 
to  go  about  talkin'  to  'ersef  an'  wen  the  moon  was 
jus'  comin'  in  full  she's  throw  conniption  fits  an'  talk 
in  ferin  tongues. 

Nen  followed  sixteen  generations  o'  black  Puffers 
who  run  mos'ly  wil'  and  Pop  says  the  assessor  never 
yit  caught  one  to  home.  The  only  way  the  sheriff 
could  surroun'  a  Black  Puffer  was  by  gittin'  about 
a  hunderd  deputies  an'  beat  up  the  bush.  An' 
'cordin'  to  history  a  good  many  of  'em  needed  sur- 
roundin'. 

Pop  said,  'bout  the  time  Washington  discovered 
America,  gret  droves  o'  Puffers  ev'ry  fall  'd  go 
ravagin'  the  southern  part  o'  Indiany  an'  carry  off 
food,  es  acorns,  pokeberries,  walnuts,  wil'  crab- 
apples,  black  haws,  red  haws,  an'  ether  eatin'  stuff. 
Onct  they  brought  back  'ith  'em  the  firs'  Indiany  pen- 
nyroil  cow,  an'  from  thet  day  civilization  c'menst. 
Nen  come  the  long-laiged  dogs.  'Cause  they  hed 
to  hev  dogs  to  ketch  the  cows  at  milkin'  time. 

I'll  tell  you  'bout  the  pennyroil  cow  sometime. 

Nen  the  blood  got  mixed  'ith  ether  inhabitans  an' 
at  las'  Pop  bloomed.  He  is  the  last  o'  the  Puffers. 
I  don't  know  how  Jake  Spading  come  on  this  vale. 
Jake  hes  elephant  ears,  rat  eyes  an'  smokes  nearly  all 
the  time.  He's  set  the  bed  afire  twict.  Worse'n  Sim 
Puffer.  I  forgot  about  Sim.  Dreckly  I'll  tell  you 
'bout  him.  Hi  Stickel  is  noted  fer  producin'  Jake 
Stickel  who  run  off  'ith  a  circus,  an'  Hink  Stickel,  the 
bumblebee  fighter. 

Jake   Spading's  boy   is   Hi   Spading,   the   hornet 


The  Last  of  the  Puffers  25 

chaser,  mos'ly  freckles  an'  who  can  say  the  catachism 
by  heart.  Hi  hes  been  tellin'  me  fer  three  years 
what  a  catachism  is  an'  I  don't  know  yit. 

Nen  ther's  Ole  Oleson  who  has  'leven  children  an' 
seven  dogs;  Mister  Reddic  who  lives  in  a  fodder 
shock  in  winter  an'  who  owns  a  mule  es  come  out  o' 
the  flood  an'  can  almos'  climb  a  tree  an'  a  coffee- 
pot swiped  from  the  army  surroundin'  ol'  Acre. 
Down  beyon'  the  Crossin's,  thet's  three  mile,  kind  o' 
hid  in  the  bresh  like  turkey  nests,  is  ethers,  nen  comes 
more  Puffers,  nen  the  post-office  'leven  miles  furder 
on.  A  Puffer  widow  run  it. 

But  mos'  ev'rybody  hugs  clost  to  the  San'hill  road, 
jus'  like  buttons  of  all  colors,  sizes  an'  kin's  on  a 
string,  but  ev'ry  last  one  of  'em  hes  the  swamp  ear- 
mark on  'em.  But  ther's  a  few  dozen  er  so  es  lives 
back  in  the  bresh  es  it  takes  a  detective  good  at 
trailin'  es  can  fin'  em.  O'  course,  'cept  in  a  few 
places  'long  the  San'hill  road,  the  shanties  an'  huts 
an'  livin'  places  is  hid  by  trees  er  thickets  er  bresh. 
Coin'  through  the  woods  to  find  'em  is  'bout  like 
flushin'  prairie  chickens  'ith  a  hot  dog  in  July. 

The  Squire's  house  is  a  livin'  example,  es  I  hev 
heard  Pop  say,  "  of  architectooral  monstrosity  an' 
carpenter's  mayhem."  Them  words  was  liked  'bout 
es  well  es  any  'e  ever  rolled  out.  An'  wen  it  come  to 
rollin'  words,  w'en  Pop  was  feelin'  gay  'e  could  beat 
Shakespeare  all  hollow.  That's  whut  the  preacher  es 
taught  me  readin'  an'  spellin'  said. 

Firs'  one  Puffer  cut  through  the  side  o'  the  ol' 
double  log  house  an'  built  a  naddition.  Nen  a  nether 


26  Pufferland 

Puffer  come  in  an'  cut  through  th'  ether  side  an' 
built  a  naddition.  Nen  some  Puffers  es  wasn't  so 
well  off  built  lean-tos  to  the  'additions.  Next  the 
Squire  cut  through  additions, — nen  through  the  back 
en'  an'  concocted  three  rooms  more.  Nen  three  year 
ago  Pop  put  a  front  addition  on.  I  fergot  to  say 
some  o'  the  ol'  Puffers  built  a  porch  aroun'  in  spots 
an'  ethers  tore  sothin'  out  an'  tacked  ether  things 
on,  tell  now  you  hev  to  go  roun'  back  of  the  house 
to  git  into  the  front  door,  an'  even  then  a  stranger  is 
liable  to  git  lost. 

Now  as  to  Sim  Puffer,  he  makes  a  nexplanation  by 
'imsef. 


CHAPTER  IV 
OL'  SIM  PUFFER 

ONE  time  Clonel,  Pop  an'  me  was  out  'ith  a  cross- 
cut saw  agettin'  some  ellum  stovewood  down  in  the 
firewood  clearin's.  Purty  hot  thet  day  an'  Pop  set 
down.  Pop  allus  did  set  down  easy  'ith  a  crosscut, 
an'  nothin'  but  talkin'  seemed  to  rest  'im.  'E  was 
fannin'  'imsef  wen  'e  says,  "  Skid  this  here  ol'  ellum 
log  makes  me  think  of  ol'  Sim  Puffer.  Nobody 
knowed  how  tall  'e  was  fer  nobody  ever  saw  him 
clean  straight  up.  He  was  es  eternally  thin  es  a 
fishworm  an'  allus  smokin'.  W'er  'e  got  'is  tobacker 
jus'  nobody  knowed,  but  I  allus  hed  my  s'picions. 
It  was  home  growed  an'  dis  smoke  smelled  jus  tee- 
totally  like  Jake  Spadings.  And  water.  Water 
Skid?  Lordygod!  Wy  'e  jus'  drunk  'ise'f  an' 
smoked  'ise'f  to  death.  Fer  a  fac.  Ef  ther  ever 
was  a  throwback  ol'  Sim  Puffer  was  the  genewine 
article." 

Nen  I  ast  Pop  whut  a  throwback  was. 

"  Whut's  thet  Skid?  Don't  know  whut  a  throw- 
back is,  hugh?  Wy  a  throwback  is  a  Darwinick 
son.  Wen  you  grow  up  Skid  an'  git  cornered  in  a 
nargumen'  allus  lay  back  an'  loll  on  Darwinicks  an' 
'lectricity.  Fling  in  a  few  hoopin'  words  an'  stan' 

27 


28  Pufferland 

back  an'  Freeze  'em  'ith  yer  dignity.  There  is  nothin' 
thet  can  squelch  a  nargufyer  like  Darwinicks  and 
'lectricity.  And  I  ought  to  know  ef  anybody 
does." 

"  Who  was  this  Darwinicks  Pop?  "  I  ast. 

"  Skid  I  aint  partic'lar  posted  on  jus'  wher  'e 
lived,  er — percisely  wat  'is  name  was,  er, — er  jus 
whut  'e  said.  But  I  seen  'is  picture  onct,  an'  'e  looked 
like  a  big  bunch  o'  wiskers  an'  wrinkles.  But  'e 
peddled  reglar  tinware  all  right.  Heredity  was  'is 
main  holt.  Thet's  the  bunch  Skid, — heredity.  I'd 
bet  forty-nine  dollars  ther  aint  anether  man  in  forty 
mile,  'cept  thet  grinnin'  bunch  o'  yeller  monkey, 
Jelly  Puffer,  es  knows  beans  about  heredity. 

"  Frinstance  a  throwback  is  tracin'  a  throwfor'd 
back'ard  tell  you  get  on  the  particlar  spot  of  its 
pristine  origin." 

"  Who's  thet  Pop?  "  I  ast  'im;  I  was  s'prised. 

"  Skid  them  words  come  easy  to  a  man  o'  my 
intlec'."  I  saw  thet  lef'  wrinkle  in  'is  eye  an'  I 
knowed  to  onct  we  was  out  fer  anything  but  crosscut 
sawin'  o'  stovewood. 

"  Frinstance  agin,  supposin'  ol'  Ager  Puffer  et 
buckeyes  'stead  o'  sweet  tastin'  chinquapins.  Nen 
suppose  now  efter  mebby  five  hunderd  years  some  one 
'd  come  acrost  a  fool  kid  Puffer  es  was  nibblin'  buck- 
eyes. Thet  would  show  heredity  er  a  throwback 
to  ol'  Ager.  It  aint  particlar  hard  fer  some  cranks 
to  read  up  on  throwbacks,  but  it's  fire  an'  tow  an' 
mos'  thunderation  hard  to  read  throwfor'ards.  This 
Darwinick  was  good,  they  say,  in  tracin'  the  throw- 


Ol'  Sim  Puffer  29 

backs  to  the  original  thrower  of  the — the — heredity 
boomyrang. 

"  Frinstance,  Jelly  Puffer  goes  back  to  grinnin' 
monkeys  smashin'  cocoanuts  out'n  the  tops  o'  the 
trees.  The  genewine  Puffers  don't  go  back  no  furder 
'n  ol'  Ager  Puffer;  'e  sprung  spontanus.  Now  w'en 
you  see  Jake  Spading's  Dutch  dog  stiltin'  'roun' 
efter  a  rabbit  it  hes  jus'  chased  up  an'  lost,  it  means 
it's  descended  from  the  boorooloogoogaw  o'  the  grass 
age.  I  aint  jus'  swearin'  about  the  scientific  name 
of  the  animal  Skid. 

"  In  thet  early  age  of  the  worl'  Skid,  the  grass 
was  from  fifteen  to  forty  foot  high  an'  so  the  dog's 
ancestors  bed  nachurly  to  rare  up  on  'is  hin'  laigs 
wen  'e  started  up  a  rabbuck.  So  efter  a  few  hunderd 
million  years  an'  mebby  longer  the  grass  gittin'  wore 
shorter  all  the  time,  o'  course  the  boorooloogoogaw 
got  shorter  an'  shorter  in  'is  laigs  all  the  time  tell 
'e  got  to  runnin'  on  all  fours." 

"Wat  about  the  kangeroo  Pop?"  I  ast  fer  the 
preacher  tol'  me  about  it. 

"The  w'ich?  Oh  kangeroo;  perfec'  'lustration 
son,  perfec'.  The  kangeroo  is  n't  a  throwback 
s'much  es  a  half  throwback.  Besides  I  am  credit- 
abelly  informed  thet  the  grass  in  Norway  is  purty 
goldang  high  yit." 

"  Wy  Pop !  The  preacher  said  the  Kangeroo  is 
a  ninhabitan'  of  Austeraily." 

"  Austerthunder  an'  Tom  Walker  Skid.  I'm 
speakin'  'bout  the  reglar  Norway  Kangeroo."  An' 
Pop  bristled  up  more  'n  I  'd  saw  'im  fer  a  year. 


3O  Pufferland 

"  But  comin'  back,  whut's  bred  in  the  bone  can't  be 
teetotally  worked  out  by  time.  Ther's  boun'  to  be 
streaks,  an'  stains,  an'  motion  'n'  sleepin'  mem'ries 
tucked  away  som'ers  in  the  anatmy,  fysollogy  an' 
hygeen.  Thet  is  things  es  b'longed  to  the  booroo- 
loogoogaw  mos'ly  er  entirely  wore  out  er  ain't  work- 
abel  any  more.  So  w'en  Jake's  dog  rares  up  on  'is  hin' 
laigs  'e  fergits  'is  breedin'  fer  a  million  years  an' 
mebby  longer  an'  wakes  up  the  'rignal  boorooloogoo- 
gaw  perspectiv  an'  some  o'  the  rasheoshenashun 
details." 

"  Gosh !  Pop  thet's  a  slambanger,  but  wher  does 
the  throwback  come  out  in  ol'  Sim?  " 

"Well  Sim  was  allus  smokin',  wa'n't  'e?  An' 
allus  a  drinkin'  swamp  water,  wa'n't  'e?  An'  bein' 
slim  es  a  fishworm  o'  course  'e  never  did  know  wether 
'e  hed  the  stomachache  er  the  backache  er  jus'  plain 
bots  er  wether  'e  hed  a  native  longin'  fer  'is  nachurel 
element.  An'  thet  was  water  an'  smoke.  So-o." 

"  Well  Pop,"  says  I  sly,  "  w'at  is  the  rest  o'  the 
perspectiv?  " 

"Whut's  thet?  The  res'?  W'y  it's  es  plain  es 
the  nose  on  your  looker,  Sim  is  the  riginal  pipe  fish 
o'  the  Kankakee  swamp.  Hugh?" 

An'  I  tol'  Pop  es  how  I  guessed  it  was  an'  mebby 
plainer. 


CHAPTER  V 
ABE  PUFFER'S  ASH-HOPPER 

ONE  evening  I  came  in  dead  tired  from  an  almost 
unsuccessful  snipe  hunt.  Skid  fed  my  dogs,  cleaned 
my  guns  and  looked  the  question  he  did  not  dare  to 
ask.  He  had  quickly  learned  some  of  the  amenities 
and  peculiarities  of  huntsmen's  etiquette.  I  had  hid- 
den my  game  sack  and  I  knew  no  hunter  would  ask 
more  than,  "What  luck,  Colonel?"  But  Skid 
wanted  to  know  why  there  was  no  game  sack  and 
pawed  around  my  hunter's  outfit  obtrusively.  I  was 
unsociably  silent. 

"  Snipe  out  here  aint  a  bit  like  some  ether  snipe. 
Not  a  bit."  There  was  no  reply.  After  waiting 
he  began  again.  "  Evrybody  says  so."  I  grunted 
enigmatically.  He  sat  down,  crossed  his  knees,  bent 
an  elbow  on  them,  with  his  chin  in  his  hand  and  with 
a  judicial  air  uttered,  "  A  teetotally  differenter  kin'." 

"  Our  kin'  do  snipe  wriggle  an'  twis'  fearful  wen 
they  break  up.  Wen  up  they  jus'  whiz  down  like 
night  hawks  flyin'  In  the  sunset  an'  doin'  the  chimbley 
act.  Ever  see  'em  twist  an'  roar  down  mebby  thirty 
foot?  Them's  the  Monon  kin'."  He  relapsed  into 
silence. 

*'  Oh,  I  got  one,  Skid,  but  don't  get  on  the  top  of 

31 


32  Pufferland 

the  Ridge  and  shout  it  out  to  the  rest  of  the  hunters." 

"Thet's  'bout  right.  The  Iryquois  is  diff'rent. 
A  fellow  can  get  two  to  three  of  them.  Monon's 
diffrent.  I've  seen  fellows  'ith  seven  hunderd  dollar 
guns  o'ny  git  one  of  them." 

We  went  in  to  supper.  All  of  us  were  taciturn 
that  day;  snipe  were  shy  and  elusive.  I  asked  Skid 
after  a  little  thawing  induced  by  Angelina's  spread, 
"  Skid,  did  you  ever  get  a  Monon  snipe  with  that  old 
musket  of  yours?  " 

"  'Casionally;  I  won't  let  'em  bit  me."  All  of  us 
laughed  at  his  unexpected  answer. 

"How  many  in  one  whole  day  Mister?"  Skid 
squirmed  in  his  chair.  Some  of  the  other  hunters 
persisted. 

"  How  many  snipe  ever  tried  to  bite  you  in  one 
day,  Skid?  "  asked  the  General,  winking  at  me. 

"  Reglar  snipe  huntin'?  " 

"Yes;  the  regular  snipe  hunting,  the  Monon 
kind,"  I  broke  in. 

"  Wen  they  was  kin'  do  peart  an'  sassy  an'  the 
weather  kin'  do  snappy?  " 

"  Of  course.  The  real  night  hawk  kind,  that  do 
the  chimney  act,  the  peart  and  sassy  Monon  breed, 
and  when  the  weather  just  snaps  like  whip  crackers, 
eh?" 

"  O'  course  I  s'pect  'ith  m'  ol'  musket  too."  He 
looked  miserable,  moved  restlessly  in  his  chair  and 
even  tried  to  change  the  subject.  At  a  given  signal 
by  the  General,  each  of  us  four  stopped  masticating, 
brought  knife  and  fork  down  with  a  bang  on  the 


Abe  Puffer's  Ash-Hopper  33 

board  and  glared  our  question  at  Skid.  We  could 
do  such  unholy  things. 

"  Well  seein's  I'm  up  agin  it  good  an'  hard — wy 
onct  I  kilt  twelve." 

"In  heaven's  name  Skid,  snipe  or  pewees?" 
roared  the  General. 

"  Jus'  snipe  Genral."  He  reddened  guiltily  as  if 
ashamed  of  his  massacre,  yet  every  man  of  us  knew 
he  was  telling  the  truth.  His  stolen  glance  at  me 
pleaded  for  my  compassion.  I  turned  decent  at 
once. 

"  Skiddie,  it  doesn't  look  well  to  be  bragging  about 
your  hunting.  General,  do  have  a  hot  biscuit."  I 
became  eloquent  over  the  bread.  Though  Skid 
breathed  a  relieving  sigh  he  still  seemed  to  be 
troubled  that  in  an  unguarded  moment  he  had  told 
that  he  had  made  twelve  snipe  bite  the  dust.  Perhaps 
he  could  not  forget  how  each  hunter  had  groaned 
when  he  named  the  score  of  his  massacre. 

After  supper  when  we  had  returned  to  our  sum- 
merhouse  Skid  seemed  to  be  himself  again.  He 
asked  a  dozen  sly  and  eager  questions  about  the 
great  world  he  knew  of  but  could  not  know.  Some- 
how the  subject  of  building  an  ash-hopper  arose. 
I  asked  him  how  the  dark,  acrid,  ill-smelling  stuff 
was  made. 

Es  Pop  said  to  me  onct,  "  Skid  the  makin'  o'  sof 
soap  is  one  o'  the  lost  arts,  'cept  in  dark  corners  o' 
Kentucky,  Indiany  an'  in  the  bresh  districks  of 
Ohio."  ' 

Pop  gits  four  post  an'  sets  'em  'bout  three  an' 


34  Pufferland 

da  half  by  three.  Nen  he  nails  liners  on  top  o' 
the  posts  fer  the  slantin'  boards  'e  puts  in  wich  p'int 
into  the  sugar  trought  at  the  bottom.  Nex'  throw 
in  some  straw  so's  the  ashes  won't  git  mixed  'ith 
the  lye,  nen  th'  ashes  an'  nen  water  an'  there  y'air. 
Looks  easy  to  buil'  da  lye  hopper  bu'  taint.  Wen 
it's  done  it  looks  like  a  big  cut  o'  boughten  cheese 
'ith  the  pint  down  restin'  in  the  trought  wich  runs 
the  lye  into  the  bucket.  I've  saw  'em  leak  worse  sixty 
all  over. 

I  remember  how  Pop  built  the  last  one.  Y'ought 
to've  saw  Pop  thet  day.  Spring,  bluebirds  singin' 
on  the  gate  pos',  blue  mist  over  the  swamp;  ash-hop- 
per time.  So  Pop  heven  swiped  a  sugar  maple 
trought  down  beyond  the  Crossins  one  night,  got 
'is  new  post,  lined  'em  an'  nailed  'is  square  top. 
Nen  'e  rested  considerable  an'  talked. 

Seems  like  Pop  hed  to  buil'  da  hopper  'bout  evry 
two  year.  'E  was  allus  mad  adoin'  two  things, 
scourin'  'is  plow  an'  erectin'  a  nash-hopper. 

"  Son,"  sez  'e  to  me,  "  sometime  in  yer  mortal 
histry  wen  you  hev  been  enough  ijut  to  be  married  an' 
hev  to  buil'  a  nash-hopper,  you  will  steal  a  sugar 
trought,  cause  ef  you  don't  the  lye  won't  run  free. 
Get  some  nails  o'  Hi  Stickel,  some  boards  o'  Jake 
Spading  an'  dabout  this  time  o'  year  wen  y'  ought 
to  be  scourin'  up  the  plow  down  the  San'hill  road, 
bustin'  it  up  so  nobody  can  git  along  it  fer  three 
months,  an'  wen  y'  ought  to  be  shellin'  seed  corn  an' 
fixin'  up  extry  harness,  w'y  you'll  hev  to  projec'  one 
of  these  gosh  blamed  ol'  lye  manafactories. 


Abe  Puffer's  Ash-Hopper  35 

"  Now  you  take  yer  hammer  an'  nails  in  han'  an' 
begin  to  nail  like  the  oF  Nick  was  a  comin'  to  borry 
the  hammer.  Trust  in  Providence  an'  nail  away." 

Pop  got  four  stakes  an'  drove  'em  in  the  groun'. 
"So,"  said  Pop,  lookin'  at  me.  "Now  nail;  now 
poun'.  Compron  eevu  ?  "  Thet  wasn't  Pop's  limit 
in  ferin  language,  though.  Pop  nailed  an'  nailed. 
One  nail  flew  up  on  the  smokehouse.  He  stared 
at  it. 

"Reglar  flyin'  machine,"  'e  said,  nailin'  harder 
'n  ever. 

Pop  put  the  board  en's  in  the  trought,  some  long 
an'  some  short,  makin'  the  thing  look  fearful  'at 
would  scare  mos'  any  livin'  thing  at  night.  Nen 
'e  slammed  a  lot  of  ashes  in  an'  set  down  a  long  w'ile 
to  res'.  Pop  was  great  on  restin'  an'  talkin'  ef  any- 
one bed  the  intlec'  to  hear  'im. 

"  Skid  wen  you  go  into  the  fambly  business  y'allus 
got  to  hev  a  nash-hopper  fer  a  weddin'  gif'.  Spe- 
cially in  Indiany.  Bein'  married  you  must  'ave 
soap;  t'ave  soap  you  mus'tave  lye;  t'ave  lye  you 
got  t'ave  a  nash-hopper.  Wen  yer  married  'bout 
forty  year  the  men  folks  hev  learnt  to  buiF  da  hopper 
an'  the  women  folks  hev  learnt  to  make  soap.  But 
it  takes  a  one  eyed  ol'  woman  'ith  a  shawl  'round 
'er  head  an'  da  niron  clay  pipe  in  'er  teeth  to  make 
perfec',  tremblin'  livery  sof  soap." 

Wen  Pop  was  right  in  the  center  o'  the  perceedin's 
Mom  looked  out'n  the  kitching  door  an'  says,  "  Abie 
you  '11  have  to  hurry  'cause  I  want  to  go  to  bilin' 
by  nex'  Thursday." 


36  Pufferland 

Thet  was  n't  much  to  say,  was  it?  But  it  acted 
like  pizon  on  Pop.  Sence  I  think  Pop  hed  been 
restin'  considerable  an'  was  talkin'  'bout  thet  time. 
He  jumped  up  an'  begun  to  hammer  the  life  out'n 
thet  hopper.  'E  drove  nails  like  fury  most  anywhers 
'cause  Mom  was  lookin'.  Anether  nail  flew  up  on 
the  smokehouse.  Pop  did  n't  look  up.  "Nails 
hev  riz,"  'e  said.  A  tenpenny  glanced  out  an' 
took  a  flyin'  nip  out'n  my  ear.  Gosh-all-blimmity  it 
made  me  rub.  Pop  laughed  an'  stopped  'long  'nough 
to  say,  "  Skid  you'll  hev  to  look  out,  this  is  the  sweet 
hour  o'  prayer.  Dreadful  hurry,  lye  convention 
meets  nex'  Thursday.  Can't  tell  but  would  n't 
s'prise  me  a  geedanged  bit  ef  I'd  kill  half  the  neigh- 
borhood jus'  preparin'  the  fixin's.  Better  back  off 
wile  I'm  aworkin'  the  battery.  Savvy  Skid?  "  Nen 
wile  nailin'  he  kep'  sayin' : 

"  Skid  I  sugges'  you  take  a  Genral  Sherman  flank 
movemen  'roun'  behin'  the  smokehouse.  Mebby 
there'll  be  a  whole  string  o'  corpses  'roun'  here  before 
I  git  marched  through  Georgy.  Ef  you  happin' 
to  see  any  females  'roun'  here  shoo  'em  off,  it's  dread- 
fully temerarius." 

Thet  word  was  a  new  one  on  me,  an'  Pop  seein' 
thet  felt  better.  Ef  ther  was  one  thing  'e  liked 
better'n  anything  else  it  was  elocutin'  at  the  Crossins 
literary  and  flashin'  out  bustin'  words. 

Pop  hed  the  thing  about  done  an'  was  cypherin' 
around  it,  squintin'  'is  eye  long  the  top,  nen  the 
trought,  an'  sizen  the  basteel  up  like  a  hunter  jedges 
the  pints  of  a  new  bird  dog.  'E  backed  off,  cocked 


Abe  Puffer's  Ash-Hopper  37 

'is  head  first  on  one  side  nen  on  th'ether  like  a  robin. 
Nen  he  backed  off  'bout  thirty  feet  sayin'  'e  wanted 
to  git  the  rashsheoshenashun  perspectiv.  Nen  'e 
said,  flourishin'  'is  hammer  'round  'is  head: 

"  On  this  'spicious  occasion  my  bosom  swells  within 
me  at  whut  we  hev  accomplished  in  our  short  but 
glo-o-orous  history.  Time  will  reward  the  strong. 
The  crumblin'  mawsoleyum,  the  marble  shaff, — the 
marble  shaff  that  pierces  the  hevings  blue,  the  mighty 
walls  on  which  the  cannons  rest,  all  bear  witness  to 
the  'stinctive  desire  within  us  to  be  remembered  by 
the  coming  generations.  The  'morseless  han'  o' 
time  grasps  each  granite  fiber,  an' — an' — the  'morse- 
less  han's  o'  time  grasps  each  granite  fiber;  an' — 
an' — an' — say  Skid,  how  in  thunder  does  thet  go? — 
They  fall  into  the,  into  the — Skid  scoot  to  the  house 
an'  git  that  Hunderd  Selexshuns.  If  Mrs.  Puffer," — 
w'en  Pop  said  "  Mrs.  Puffer  "  I  knowed  thet  there 
was  no  argument,  so  I  got  up  an'  made  fer  the  house. 
"Skid,"  'e  called  after  me,  "  ef  yer  mother  asts  any- 
thing, w'y, — tell  'er, — tell  'er,  we  want  it  fer  a  corner 
stone,  or  nest  aig,  or  sothin'." 

I  said  to  Mom,  "  Pop's  got  to  the  Hunderd  Se- 
lexshuns part  o'  the  ash-hopper  program."  Mom  set 
down  tired,  but  she  understood  to  onct.  Lookin' 
serious  she  came  out  to  the  ash-hopper  'ith  me. 
"Abe,"  said  Mom,  frownin',  "  'pears  to  me  you  got 
some  fool  idy  about  this  hopper.  What  you  wanting 
this  book  for?"  Mom  allus  talked  more  proper 
'n  Pop. 

"  Missis  Puffer,"  said  Pop,  tryin'  to  brazen  it  out, 


38  Puffer-land 

"  can  you  expec'  a  man  o'  my  intlec'  to — to  perjec 
a  lye  basteel  like  this,  'ithout  some  recreation  or  in 
ether  words  'ithout  the  rashsheoshenatin'  details?  " 

"Oh!  rats  an'  snails  an'  puppy  dog  tails,"  said 
Mom.  Nen  Pop  looked  foolisher  'an  ever.  "  Sakes 
alive  man,  you  ain't  getting  this  thing  right."  She 
walked  'round  it  frownin',  an'  Pop  follerin'  'er  'ith 
'is  eyes,  lookin'  solemn. 

"  The  trough  isn't  slanted  right.  The  lye  will 
back  up  an'  spill.  It  won't  run."  Pop  was  mad 
in  'is  stomick  an'  efter  a  little  'e  busted  out  mimickin' 
Mom's  voice: 

"Won't  run,  eh?  Do  you  want  it  to  canter,  er 
lope,  er  trot,  er  pace?  Mebby  you  want  it  to  leap 
up  like  a  panther  er  perform  a  war  dance  er  sothin'." 
Mom,  seein'  Pop's  dander  was  up,  kept  walkin' 
'round  it,  nen  stooped  down  an'  squinted  along  the 
edge.  Nen  Mom  took  holt  of  a  corner  stake  an' 
kin'  do  shook  it.  Fer  a  wonder  it  snapped  square 
off. 

"  Oh !  oh !  "  Mom  squeaked,  sort  o'  scared  in  spite 
of  'ersef. 

"  O-o-o-oh !  "  said  Pop,  mad  as  a  hornet  an'  mim- 
ickin' 'er.  "  Angelina,  I  hev  allus  ma'ntained  thet 
the  proper  place  fer  a  livin'  woman  was  the  house, 
the  fireside  wher  she  could  comfort  the  dyin',  the 
dead,"  nen  Pop  caught  'imsef  up.  "  I'll  be  golly 
switched,  dod  slammed — wy — er — nobody  ast  you 
to  come  out  here  an'  commit  salt  an'  battery  an' 
mayhem  an' — an' — ev'rything  on  my  handiwork.  I 
suggest  you  gather  up  your  remains  while  you  air 


Abe  Puffer's  Ash-Hopper  39 

still  intact  an'  betook  yoursef  to  Abe  Puffer's  lovin' 
kitching." 

Pop  was  mad  all  right,  ef  'e  was  talkin'  thet  way. 
Mom  was  experienced,  an'  lookin'  kind  o'  scared  went 
in.  Nen  Pop  sailed  in.  He  jus'  flew  at  it  like  a 
settin'  hen  at  a  hawk.  He  kep'  a  snortin'  out  as 
'e  worked,  "  Goshblimmity,  I'll  make  a  three-la'iged 
ash-hopper  out  o'  this,  by  the  Lord  Harry.  Three 
laigs  so  help  me  thunderation  an'  Tom  Walker." 
An'  Pop  fairly  tore  loose  at  the  thing. 

Pop  nailed  and  knocked  and  pounded  a  mile  a 
minute,  but  the  hopper  would  n't  stan'  up  at  all  an' 
hung  over  on  one  side  like  a  drunk  man  in  a  saddle. 
But  Pop  nailed  an'  hammered  an'  pounded  an'  a  nail 
flew  up  an'  tried  to  get  into  'is  mouth.  It  was  a 
reg'lar  three  bagger.  Pop  flung  the  hammer  down 
mad  an'  begun  to  dance.  I  took  to  the  house.  It 
was  no  time  to  be  a  spectater  to  any  ash-hopper 
doin's.  Wen  I  glanced  back,  flyin'  on,  Pop  was 
doin'  a  war  dance  'roun'  the  hopper  holdin'  'is  mouth. 
Wen  I  peeked  out  the  winder  nex'  time,  I  saw  Pop 
'ith  a  stick  o'  cord  wood  mashin'  that  ash-hopper 
to  flinders.  I  could  scarcely  make  'im  out  as  'e 
charged  on  it  agin  and  agin,  the  dust  a  rollin'  up 
like  a  storm. 

We  didn't  hev  any  soft  soap  thet  year.  As  Pop 
says,  buildin'  a  nash-hopper  is  a  lost  art. 

We  went  to  bed  that  night  as  usual.  Skid  slept 
on  coiled-wire  bed  springs  that  sagged  almost  to  the 
floor.  I  occupied  the  noble  white  spare  bed  with 
the  big  mattress  of  corn  husks  that  rattled,  every, 


40  Puffer  land 

time  I  turned,  like  a  windstorm  in  a  field  of  ripe 
corn.  I  listened  to  the  distant  hoot  of  owls,  the 
love  voices  of  the  katydids  outside  of  the  window 
in  the  morning  glory  vines.  Near,  with  uncertain 
note,  the  screech  owl's  tremulous  cry  startled  the 
birds  in  the  trees.  Far  down  in  the  mysterious  depths 
of  the  swamp  the  whooping  heron  awoke  at  long  in- 
tervals the  silences  of  the  night.  The  dark-leaved 
jack-oaks  rustled  over  the  roof,  the  Puffer  spring  ran 
with  a  drowsy  murmur,  and  a  deep  feeling  of  con- 
tentment and  rest  pervaded  my  soul.  The  moonless 
night  seemed  doubly  still.  I  fell  asleep  and  woke 
with  a  start,  for  I  had  been  dreaming  that  the  pa- 
ternal Puffer  with  a  huge  sawlog  was  beating  our 
little  summerhouse  to  pieces. 

Across  the  room  I  heard  a  sly  but  restless  move- 
ment. 

"Skid,  are  you  awake?" 

"  Kin'do."  The  tone  showed  he  had  not  been 
asleep  at  all. 

"  What's  the  matter,  Skid?  "  My  voice  was  soft 
with  sympathy. 

I  heard  a  struggle  with  the  bedclothes,  a  gulp  and 
then  in  a  feeble  tone :  "  I'm  kin'do  sorry  I  shot  them 
twelve  Monon  snipe  in  one  day:  I  jus'  can't  lie  like 
you  hunters  wen  yer  in  a  tight  place." 

Like  an  unfeeling  brute  I  snickered  under  the 
quilts.  I  composed  myself  and  quickly  thought  out 
the  proper  prevarication  necessary  to  soothe  his  soul. 
Just  as  I  began  to  speak  I  heard  a  gentle  snore.  He 
had  gone  to  sleep,  having  settled  with  his  manners. 


CHAPTER  VI 
THE  PENNYROIL  CALF 

ONE  spring  night  Skid  and  I  were  on  top  of  the 
Ridge  above  the  Puffer  homestead  trying  to  get  a 
shot  at  a  flock  of  wild  geese  that  were  circling  and 
quarreling  in  the  fog,  but  perhaps  within  gunshot. 

Wen  geese  is  hevin'  conventions  at  night  in  the 
sky  in  the  spring  Pop  said  they  was  quarrelin'  about 
fambly  matters,  es  marryin'  an'  sech  things.  One 
ol'  gander  can  cut  up  more  didos  'n  a  prairie  chicken 
an'  they  air  about  the  limit.  I  hev  sneaked  out  'fore 
it  was  light  an'  waited  fer  the  prairie  rooster  dance 
many  a  time.  Ain't  many  prairie  chickens  lef  tover 
here  any  more.  Of  all  the  jumpin',  struttin',  boo- 
hooin',  an'  holy  rollin'  gang  they's  certainly  "  tha- 
pecks  o'  the  culmination  "  es  Pop  says. 

It'd  take  a  nour  to  tell  the  bluffs  an'  wrigglin's, 
the  bustin'  out  o'  ther  neck  feathers  like  bladders 
an'  jumpin'  'bout  three  foot  high  an'  the  talkin'  down 
in  ther  bellies  like  a  ventril, — say  Clonel,  wat's  the 
rest  o'  thet  word,  I  heerd  the  preacher  say  it  all  ri' — 
wy  you  can't  tell  wether  they's  ten  feet  er  a  mile 
off. 

"  Showing  off  before  the  ladies,  think?" 

41 


42  Pufferland 

Nix.  Ther's  never  a  hen  aroun'.  Guess  they 
kin'do  think  ther  husban's  is  holy  rollers  es  I  read 
about  in  our  weekly.  Guess  they  feel  'shamed  an' 
let  thet  protracted  meetin'  gang  o'  crazy  roosters 
go  through  ther  shines  wile  they  finish  ther  naps. 
Listen  1  I  hear  them  geese  agin.  Let's  be  hurryin'. 
These  foggy  nights  is  jus'  right  'n  we  c'n  slip  right 
under  'm. 

As  we  cautiously  moved  onward  in  the  fog,  Skid, 
under  his  breath  and  in  a  tone  little  above  a  whisper, 
told  me  this: 

Onct,  wen  a  gang  o'  brants  was  heving  a  holy 
roller  convention  thet  hed  lasted  three  nights  'ithout 
gittin'  things  settled,  I  slipped  under  'em  with  m'  oP 
musket.  I  hed  it  loaded  'ith  a  handful  o'  buckshot, 
BB's,  and  some  broke  shingle  nails.  I  let  fly  right 
in  the  mos'  excitin'  spot.  Fer  heavins  sake !  "  Skid 
had  stopped,  I  thought  perhaps  momentarily  over- 
powered with  the  vast  extent  of  the  slaughter.  After 
waiting  a  decent  time,  I  asked: 

"  How  did  you  get  them  all  home?" 

Not  a  single  brant.  Fellow  wants  a  cannon  to 
kill  brants.  Ther  was  feathers  all  over  the  Kan- 
kakee  swamp  fer  a  week.  I  told  Pop.  Efter 
thinkin'  over  it  a  long  time  he  ast,  "How  many 
shingle  nails  Skid?  "  I  told  'im  'bout  two  baby  hand- 
fuls.  Nen  'e  ast  agin,  "  'Bout  how  many  bucks?  " 
An'  I  said  'bout  two  hunderd.  "  Huh-u-u !  "  'e 
laughed  kin'do  grunty  like.  "  I  see  whut's  whut, 
them  brants  took  the  nails  to  shingle  on  the  shot. 
Course  they  did  n't  need  the  feathers."  Fellow 


The  Pennyroil  Calf  43 

seein'  the  feathers  'd  think  it'd  be  terrible  crowdin' 
to  hev  all  three  on.  Sh !  We  air  gittin'  clost. 

We  sat  down  by  a  big  niggerhead  and  waited,  but 
the  geese  had  circled  out  of  gunshot. 

Pop  said  onct  'e  slipt  under  a  gang  of  a  narguin' 
crowd  o'  geese  an'  blazed  away  in  the  clouds  not 
seein'  a  thing  and  'e  brought  down  four  ol'  ganders 
fer  walkin'  exercise.  'E  said  each  one  was  big  es 
a  yearlin'  calf.  The  firs'  one  'e  come  to  grabbed 
'is  coat  tail  an'  hung  on  like  a  bulldog.  'E  walked 
to  the  nex'  an'  it  fastened  on  to  the  tail  o'  the  firs'. 
Drec'ly  'e  hed  all  four  connected.  Nen  'e  marched 
to  the  house,  goin'  straight,  all  pullin'  in  a  row  to 
the  woodshed.  Pop  said  'e  was  mos'  tired  to  death 
jus'  pullin'  thet  geedinged  row  o'  ganders,  specially 
sence  they  was  so  big.  'E  tol'  me  a  fellow  c'd  see 
'is  tracks  pilin'  back  the  san'  fer  three  weeks  efter 
thet.  Pop  said  all  'e  done  was  to  slip  of'n  'is  coat 
an'  hang  'em  all  up  nex'  the  rafters.  All  'e  hed  to 
do  fer  six  weeks  was  to  cut  off  wat  goose  was  wanted 
from  the  gander  lowes'  down.  A  gander's  like  a 
doodle  bug,  they  hang  fer  life. 

A  fightin'  gander  does  hate  to  leggo,  but  Pop  hes 
imagination  bad.  A  goose  is  like  a  calf.  In  sense 
a  goose  is  a  goslin'  till  it's  dead.  An'  da  calf  ony 
gits  sense  es  it  gits  past  the  calf  age.  An'  tame 
geese  never  hes  any  sense  a'tall.  Hi  Spading  says 
they's  like  fleas,  they's  a  mistake  in  the  beginnin'. 

We  went  home.  For  some  unknown  reason  the 
sky  flock  had  disappeared  far  down  the  lands.  We 
reached  our  room  and  pulled  our  rubber  boots  off 


44  Pufferland 

and  I  was  filling  my  pipe  for  the  last  smoke  before 
bed.  Skid  had  said  as  we  returned,  "  Them  geese 
makes  me  think  about  our  pennyroil;  I'll  tell  you 
wen  we  git  back."  I  charged  him  now  for  the 
tale. 

Pop  said  ther  was  forty  'leven  ways  to  feed  a 
calf  mos'ly  wich  was  wrong.  'E  said  wen  a  calf  was 
brought  up  on  a  bucket  it  depended  on  the  feeder, 
an'  calf  sense  was  n't  required  'cept  'ith  the  feeder. 
'E  said  thet  did  take  sense  an'  no  mistake.  'E  said 
'e  spected  Napolion  'imsef  could  n't  'ave  fed  a  Nin- 
diana  pennyroil  calf.  Pop's  rule  was  "  Ef  a  penny- 
roil  can't  drink  et  the  secon'  try,  veal  is  the  reglar 
thing  in  the  course  o'  human  events." 

These  pennyroil  Indiana  calves  (Skid  pronounced 
calves  as  if  spelled  caffs)  aint  like  ether  calves.  They 
hev  too  much  deer  and  tiger  in  'em.  All  our  calves 
aint  pennyroil  but  some  air.  Pop  tol'  Hans  a  hired 
han'  onct  how  to  feed  a  pennyroil  and  Pop  never 
cracked  'is  face  either. 

"  Hans  the  way  to  feed  these  pennyroils  is  mos'ly 
guesswork.  On  the  third  day  you  steal  it  away  from 
the  cow  an'  slam  it  in  the  rail  pen  by  the  grassrick. 
Mebby  the  cow  '11  hook  you  to  death,  but  don't 
mind  a  thing  like  thet.  Nen  retire  fer  a  seasing  o' 
meditation  fer  things  air  goin'  to  happin.  Git  a 
bucket  o'  hot  milk  half  full  an'  sashay  out  to  yer 
Thermopoly.  Bid  yer  frien's  goodbye  ef  the  cow 
is  'roun'.  Ef  sh'  aint  keep  on.  Climb  over  the 
rails  wile  the  calf  is  practisin'  dancin'.  Study  its 
anatomy,  fysology  an'  hygeen.  Nen  sail  efter  it. 


The  Pennyroil  Calf  45 

You  '11  hev  to  run  it  down.  Ef  you  happen  to  catch 
it,  straddle  its  neck  like  a  panther  an'  Bullrun  it 
to'ards  the  waitin'  bucket.  Nen  hoi'  yer  breath. 
Yer  jus'  up  to  the  firin'  line.  Ef  the  calf  is  five 
days  ol'  before  it  was  took  away  there'll  be  lots  of 
tearin'  up  'roun'  them  calf  hereditimen's.  Don't  ever 
try  a  seven  day  ol'  pennyroil;  you  might  jus'  es  well 
try  to  run  down  a  wil'  turkey.  Supposin'  fer  argu- 
men  you  air  a  straddle  of  its  neck:  lock  yer  lovin' 
han's  on  one  ear,  spread  yer  taper  fingers  in  its 
mouth,  nen  holdin'  yer  breath  an'  repeatin'  some 
hymn  jab  'ith  all  yer  might  its  lovin'  nose  down  in 
the  hot  milk  and — there  y'air — mebby." 

"  What  did  Hans  say,  Skid?  "  I  asked,  filling  my 
pipe  again. 

'What  did  Hans  say?'  Jus'  "Wa!"  an'  kep' 
on  lightin'  'is  pipe  es  was  already  lit.  Pop  tol'  me 
'at  w'en  a  calf  begins  to  butt,  wriggle,  snort,  spit, 
nen  blow  like  a  whale,  jus'  repeat  some  verse  in 
Job  an'  keep  on.  But  I  learned  Pop  'bout  feedin' 
calves.  Drec'ly  I'll  tell  you  'bout  thet.  'Fore  I 
learned  how,  w'y,  w'en  a  calf  come  up  to  blow,  or 
w'en  it  was  plum  crazy  'ith  its  nose  in  the  milk, 
tryin'  to  drink  an'  not  knowin'  how,  it'd  bob  up  an' 
knock  a  corner  off  my  stomick.  Sometimes  'fore 
I  knowed  jus'  how,  it'd  give  me  a  knock  es  I'd  hev 
to  set  down  wonderin'  fer  sometime  ef  calves  wasn't 
a  mistake  anyways. 

"  Nobody  ought  to  jine  church,"  Pop  said,  "  durin' 
calf  feedin'  season."  Es  our  cows  was  dreadful  un- 
certain 'ith  calves  Pop  was  kep'  out  o'  church,  besides 


46  Pufiferland 

the  neares'  church  was  down  at  Wolcott  wher  ev'ry- 
body  takes  turns  reg'lar  lickin'  the  teacher  durin' 
winter. 

Efter  Pop  'd  fed  a  young  calf  about  three  times 
'e  allus  turned  it  over  to  me.  One  o'  the  las'  calves 
'e  fed  wanted  to  starve  to  death.  It  jus'  wouldn't 
drink.  I  thought  it  anether  case  o'  mighty  thin 
veal,  w'en  an  idy  struck  me.  I  got  a  new  corncob 
an'  punched  the  peth  out.  Nen  es  Pop  was  standin' 
there,  speckled  'ith  slobbers,  'is  face  red,  an'  kind 
o'  undecided  on  veal,  I  slipped  the  cob  in  the  calf's 
mouth.  An'  there  'twas!  It  was  the  firs'  time  in 
the  histry  o'  mankin'  es  a  thing  like  thet  hap- 
pened. 

Wen  Pop  seen  thet  calf  squat  down,  tremblin'  'ith 
joy,  swoopin'  in  thet  milk,  'e  stared,  moved  aroun' 
kind  of  excited,  an'  nen  the  calf  being  ready  for  pie, 
spit  the  cob  out  like  a  cud  o'  tobacco.  Pop  picked 
the  cob  up,  squinted  through  the  hole  and  seein' 
the  milk  was  clean  gone  in  the  bucket,  'e  looked  at 
me  an'  sniggered. 

"  Skid  'ith  the  proper  financial  connections  an'  the 
rasheoshenashun  details  you'd  be  anether  Rocky- 
feller." 

Onct  we  hed  a  black  bull  pennyroil  calf  w'ich  we 
foun'  late,  down  in  the  swamp.  It  was  nine  days 
ol'  w'en  we  begun  to  raise  it  by  ban'.  It  was  strong 
an'  scary  an'  worse  'n  a  zebra. 

I  know  'bout  zebras;  Jelly  Puffer  hed  a  pair.  'E 
traded  off  a  forty  fer  two  zebras  from  a  circus  man 
an'  drove  'em  aroun'  wen  'e  was  runnin'  fer  sheriff 


The  Pennyroil  Calf  47 

on  the  greenback  ticket  or  sothin'.  Jelly  was  Pop's 
step-cousin  er  sothin',  don't  zactly  know.  Jelly  said 
a  zebra  was  'bout  es  dangerous  at  one  en'  es  th' 
ether,  an'  to  break  it  well,  you  hev  to  half  kill  it, 
nen  break  it  over  agin  'bout  ev'ry  ether  day. 

His  "  stripers,"  as  'e  called  'em,  broke  up  all 
'is  wagon  tongues,  shafts,  wheels,  specially  the  front 
parts  o'  wagons.  Evrybody  said  Jelly  'd  get  elected 
sure,  but  the  day  'fore  election  wile  'e  was  makin'  a 
regular  "  haranguer  "  speech  at  Seafield,  thet's  a  frog 
country,  an'  was  standin'  in  the  las'  wagon  'e  hed, 
Jim  Crary,  who  was  runnin'  agin  'im,  hed  some  boys 
to  tickle  the  zebras'  stomicks  an'  they  run  away  an' 
killed  Jelly.  They  say  they  scattered  Jelly  fer  more'n 
four  mile  through  thet  frog  country. 

Jelly's  wife,  she  aint  a  real  Puffer,  she  works  and 
saves  'er  money,  wy  she  took  the  law  on  Jim  Crary 
an'  sued  'im  fer  damages  to  life  an'  wagon,  an* 
Pop  said  fer  the  pursuit  o'  happiness  an'  dinsanity. 
'Taint  settled  yit,  either.  The  jedge  'lowed  'er  fifty 
dollars  fer  Jelly  an'  twenty-fifty  fer  the  wagon.  Ef 
I  remember,  the  jedge  forced  Jim  to  take  care  o' 
the  zebras  the  rest  of  'is  natural  life. 

Yes,  'bout  the  black  bull  calf,  almos'  forgot  'bout 
it.  It  was  pennyroil,  zebra  an'  some  Bengaul  tiger. 
Wen  it  was  put  in  the  rail  pen  there  was  considerable 
doin'  in  the  calf  business.  It  was  wet,  muddy  an' 
slippy  an'  Pop  took  efter  it  by  zigzag.  Ever  see 
two  dogs  fight  'ith  muzzles  on?  Pop'd  catch,  slip, 
fall,  the  calf'd  leap,  squirm,  beller  an'  turn  han' 
springs.  'E  got  it  down  in  the  corner  at  las' 


48  Pufferland 

an'  set  on  it.  I  never  saw  Pop  so  mad  in  'is 
born  days;  it  was  lookin'  to  me  it'd  be  Puffer  er 
veal. 

D'rec'ly  'e  yelled,  "Milk,  Skid,"  an'  I  jumped 
over  an'  give  'im  the  bucket.  Nen  what  do  you 
think  'e  done  ? 

Wile  pantin'  and  sweatin'  'e  poured  thet  milk  over 
its  head  kind  o'  solemn  es  it  squirmed  under  'im, 
sayin',  "  Drink,  purty  creature,  drink.  The  stars 
air  beginnin'  to  blink!"  Nen  'e  give  it  a  little 
crack  over  its  bull  black  head,  got  up  an'  climbed 
over  the  fence.  "  Skid  go  over  an'  tell  Jake  Spading 
if  'e  wants  some  tiger  meat,  bring  over  'is  houn's,  run 
it  down,  kill  it  an'  I'll  go  halvers." 

I  never  could  understan'  w'en  'e  was  so  mad,  w'ich 
was  seldom,  how  'e  could  quote  them  lines  wile  'e 
was  pourin'  thet  milk  in  its  ears.  It  didn't  do  me 
any  good,  the  calf  didn't  understan',  an'  accordin' 
to  Mom,  'e  never  quoted  right  in  his  whole  born 
days.  Mom  said  it  done  'im  good,  jus'  as  ef  'e  said 
'is  prayers  'er  got  religion,  or  sothin'. 

Pop  died  about  a  year  and  a  half  ago  an'  'e  allus 
said  I  was  to  hev  the  whole  shootin'  match  aroun' 
here  'ith  Mom,  wen  'e  was  gathered  to  the  Gret 
Silens. 

Mom  sent  me  out  to  feed  Bossy,  a  new  calf,  one 
night.  I  jus'  tried  the  reglar  way, — stan'  astraddle 
of  its  neck  'ith  my  fingers  in  its  mouth,  shettin'  my 
eyes  and  waitin'.  'Fore  I  knowed  it  ther  was 
slobbers,  straw  an'  dirt  all  over  me,  'sides  the 
milk  was  upset.  Wen  I  'peared  'fore  Mom  she 


The  Pennyroil  Calf  49 

looked  vexed.  She  says  "  vexed "  now,  sence 
she  j'ined  at  protracted  meetin'  at  Reynolds  las' 
winter. 

Nen  kind  o'  collectin'  'ersef,  'cause  she  was  new 
bein'  religious  an'  hadn't  been  goin'  in  thet  kind  o' 
harness,  she  said,  soft,  "  Never  min',  Skiddie,"  she 
allus  calls  me  Skiddie  now,  "  I  will  feed  Bossy  my 
own  self.  Love  an'  kin'ness  rules  the  worl'.  They 
conquer  the  heathen,  drives  away  sorrow  an' — an' — " 
nen  she  went  into  the  milkhouse  fer  milk.  I  was 
thinkin'  an'  wonderin'.  Mom  hed  never  fed  a  calf. 
Nen  she  put  one  arm  'roun'  my  shoulder  an'  we  went 
out  to  tackle  Bossy  on  a  teetotally  new  kind  of  feedin' 
plan.  It  was  ferin  missions  workin'  on  pennyroil 
calves. 

Wen  we  come  to  the  pen  ther  was  Bossy  'ith  slob- 
bers on  'er  wiskers  eatin'  the  rails  up  an'  lookin'  es 
innocent  es  a  kitten.  I  did  n't  say  a  word  about  the 
cob  way  o'  feedin',  kin'do  fergot  es  I  was  a  graduate 
'ith  fingers.  'Sides  I  'spected  mebby  Mom  hed  a 
few  religion  p'ints.  I  was  watchin'  fer  p'ints  any- 
way. Bossy  stopped  eatin'  rails  an'  stared  at  Mom, 
lifted  'er  tail  gaylike  an'  backed  into  a  corner.  I 
guess  it  thought  Mom  was  a  nachural  enemy  er 
sothin'. 

Mom  went  up  clost  to  the  fence  an'  said,  "  Co,  co, 
Bossy  dearie,"  an'  Bossy's  eyes  bulged  like  a  rabbit's 
an'  I  guess  she  stopped  breathin'.  She  scr'uged 
back  into  the  strawstack. 

"Strawstack,  Skid?" 

Course.     Evry  calf  pen  is  made  'ith  three  pannels 


5O  Pufferland 

o'  rails  'ith  a  strawstack  er  grassrick  at  the  back. 
I  tol*  Mom  to  back  off,  nen  I  stuck  my  han'  through 
the  cracks.  Nen  Bossy  bein'  acquainted  'ith  me  an' 
me  smellin'  like  milk,  she  come  out  brave  like  a  boy 
es  aint  agoin'  to  fight. 

"  Dearie  we  won't  hurt  you,"  says  Mom,  'er  voice 
thick  'ith  'er  protracted  meetin'  lovin'-kin'ness.  Nen 
Mom  climbed  over.  Y'ought  to  Ve  saw  Bossy. 
She  danced  an'  jiggered.  She  was  fraidy  es  a  weasel. 
Mom  went  closter  an'  set  the  bucket  in  the  middle 
of  the  pen.  Nen  Mom  talked  a  lot  o'  love  to  Bossy 
es  would  melt  a  doorknob.  The  way  it  looked  to 
me,  Bossy  was  in  no  frame  o'  min'  to  go  up  to  the 
mourners'  bench.  Mom  went  closter  yet  and  spread 
out  'er  apurn  to  keep  it  from  runnin'  by  'er.  Thet 
shakin'  apurn  nigh  scared  Bossy  to  death.  Mom  got 
Bossy  cornered  'bout  the  same  way  as  wen  you  got 
a  hog  es  is  ready  to  bust  past  you.  Nen  she  looked 
kin'do  back'ard  an'  'roun'  fer  the  milk.  'Bout  then 
Bossy  shot  past  'er  an'  tore  like  a  spit  devil  'roun' 
thet  pen,  s'pect  'bout  a  mile  a  minit.  An'  y'ought 
to've  saw  Mom  fall  in  behin'  Bossy  on  the  trail. 
Wen  she  foun'  she  could  n't  run  it  down  she  begun 
to  cut  corners  on  Bossy  an'  drec'ly  springin'  she 
caught  Bossy  fair  'roun'  the  neck. 

I  guess  Bossy  hed  some  pennyroil  in  her  the  way 
them  two  woozled.  It  was  nip  an'  tuck  atween  'em. 
Mom  was  slow  makin'  fer  the  bucket  an'  hed  Bossy 
most  there  wen  Bossy  pulled  out  from  under  'er  arm 
jus'  like  a  pup  sometimes  pulls  out'n  'is  collar.  Nen 
Bossy  flew.  So  did  Mom.  They  cut  aroun'  thet 


The  Pennyroil  Calf  51 

circus  ring  jus'  eight  times.      Like  this:  and  Skid 
drew  his  knife  and  made 


Did  I  count?  I  certinly  did.  Mom  was  jus'  in 
tetch  wen  she  stepped  on  'er  dress  an'  down  she  went 
flat.  Bossy  run  over  twict  'fore  she  knowed  the 
race  was  off.  Es  Mom  flirted  up  Bossy  made  a 
glancin'  run  an'  tore  half  o'  Mom's  apurn  off  an' 
Bossy  run  aroun'  'ith  the  piece  over  'er  eyes  mighty 
gay  lookin'.  Thet  tore  gingham  apurn  took  all  the 
protracted  feelin's  out'n  Mom.  Thet  was  fatal  in 
Bossy,  sh'ought  to've  knowed  better. 

"  You  mean,  hateful,  pesky  little  sow,"  said  Mom. 
I  noticed  Mom  was  gettin'  'er  grammar  mixed  but 
I  aint  the  one  to  butt  in  wher  life  an'  death  's  at 
stake.  Mom's  hair  was  hangin'  down  'er  back  'cept 
one  little  piece  'at  stuck  out  like  a  hen's  tail  w'ich 
is  broke  an'  sort  o'  soshin'  back  an'  forth  in  the 
win'. 

Mom  eyed  Bossy — it  was  a  fearful  stare — wile 
she  was  pinnin'  up  'er  dress  around  'er,  nen  makin' 
a  panther  leap,  both  went  down  in  the  corner.  Wen 
Mom  come  up  she  hed  Bossy  by  the  ears  an'  begun 
to  tug  'er  to'ards  the  bucket.  It  was  a  tug,  both 
nigh  makin'  a  straight  line,  'cept  Mom  was  lookin' 
considerable  like  a  clevis.  She  jammed  Bossy's  red 


52  Pufferland 

nose  down  in  the  milk.  Nen  Mom  stepped  on  the 
further  side  o'  the  bucket,  while  holdin'  on  so  the 
milk  bucket  wouldn't  be  knocked  over. 

I  hed  no  time  to  tell  Mom  thet  was  fatal.  Bossy 
went  crazy  wen  she  smelt  the  milk  she  didn't  know 
how  to  drink.  She  come  up  to  blow  like  a  whale. 
All  calves  blow.  She  snorted  milk  over  the  lower 
half  of  Mom.  "  Whe-e-e !  "  yelled  Mom  as  she 
spit  slobbers  es  come  high  up,  but  agin  she  done  the 
jammin'  act.  She  belt  on  like  a  doodle  bug  on  a 
nant.  Now  was  the  time  to  get  beside  Bossy  an'  fer 
Mom  to  slip  'er  fingers  in  Bossy's  mouth.  But  Mom 
wasn't  a  nexpert  on  calf  feedin'  an'  I  was  brought 
up  knowin'  jus'  w'en  it's  safe  to  interfere  in  the  Puffer 
fambly. 

W'en  the  calf  come  up  nex'  time,  Mom  gritted  'er 
teeth  like  death  holdin'  it  down.  But  she  slipped 
on  the  straw  an'  set  down  astraddle  roun'  the  bucket, 
the  calf  steppin'  on  'er  dress.  She  couldn't  git  up, 
an'  Bossy  couldn't  git  away.  I  noticed  now  Mom 
hed  considerable  milk  in  'er  face  an'  about  a  han'ful 
o'  straw  around  'er,  in  'er  hair  an'  on  'er  close. 

But  Bossy  was  stranglin'  to  death  an'  she  jus'  hed 
to  come  up  to  blow.  It  was  'bout  half  and  half, 
but  Bossy  blowed  like  a  nengine  an'  Mom  was  almos' 
lost  in  milk  slobbers.  Mom  yelled  twice,  spit  like 
a  cat  seven  or  eight  times  an'  belt  on.  Mom  looked 
like  a  meltin'  snow  man. 

"Drink!  Drink!  you  miserable  scuttle  fish," 
screamed  Mom,  holdin'  on.  I  couldn't  see  es  ef 
Bossy  understood  English  yit.  Pop  toF  me  con- 


The  Pennyroil  Calf  53 

fidential  onct  thet  between  a  Nindiany  and  a  Conec- 
ticut  woman  doin'  things  w'en  ther  min's  made  up, 
it  was  nutmegs  to  acorns  thet  w'en  the  glo-o-rious 
sun  was  settin'  in  the  golden  wes'  the  Conecticut 
woman  'd  still  be  on  the  burnin'  deck.  Mom  was 
Casibianky  correct  enough  thet  time. 

I  saw  my  time  hed  come.  I  jumped  over,  slipped 
my  fingers  in  Bossy's  mouth  an'  Bossy  set  to  drinkin' 
sweet  es  groun'  cherry  pie.  Mom  straightened  up, 
stared  at  Bossy  an'  said: 

"  Skid  you  certainly  beat  the  devil!  "  An'  them's 
the  worst  words  I  ever  heard  Mom  say  in  all  'er 
life.  An'  I  never  saw  Mom  mad  before. 

"  Mom,"  I  said,  "  I  see  preacher  Tomsing  comin' 
'roun'  the  ben'.  Better  streak  fer  the  house." 
Y'ought  to've  saw  Mom  leap  them  rails  an'  sail  fer 
the  house  behin'  the  ether  buildin's.  Looked  jus' 
like  a  close  line  'ith  white  duds  in  a  storm.  I  jus' 
could  n't  keep  from  snigglin'  right  out  in  Bossy's 
face. 

O'  course  wen  Bossy  come  to  the  bottom  of  the 
bucket  she  es  usual  allus  efter  tried  to  butt  the  bottom 
out.  An'  es  calves  is  allus  hungry  she  begun  on  my 
wamus.  She  was  no  more  afraid  o'  me  an'  es  ef 
I  was  a  cow.  Allus  efter  thet  Bossy  acted  like  a 
perfec'  lady. 

Pop  said  to  me  many  a  time  thet  feedin'  calves  an' 
settin'  hens  took  the  kin'  do  brains  es  made  checker 
players.  You  hed  to  study  yer  adversary  an'  study 
moves.  An'  no  two  games  was  jus'  talike.  Anether 
thing  'e  said  I  never  could  quite  ketch  on.  'E  said 


54  Pufferland 

every  human  bein'  hed  a  girl  in  'is  system  called 
Bet  Noire.  Wen  I  ast  'bout  it  I  saw  thet  wrinkle 
'round  'is  left  eye.  "  It's  hard  t'explain  Skid.  It's 
a  sort  o'  French  girl  nachurly  in  'is  heredity,"  an' 
thet  was  'bout  all  I  ever  found  out. 

"Where  did  your  father  go  to  school,  Skid? 
Where  did  he  learn  his  foreign  words?  " 

Pop,  Mom  tol'  me  one  time,  come  from  the 
South.  'E  never  went  to  school  'cause  'e  said  he 
hed  to  be  school  director  most  all  the  time.  I've 
heerd  Pop  say  many  a  time  'e  had  a  knowledge  of 
evry  livin'  language  'cept  the  harder  places  in  United 
Stateser.  Pop  hes  been  school  director,  paff-master 
and  county  supervisor  fer  a  lifetime.  'E's  ben 
Justice  o'  the  Peace  fer  forty  years.  Thet's  the 
reason  they  call  'im  "  Squire." 


CHAPTER  VII 
THE  RORYBILIUS 

"EVER  have  any  enjoyments  down  here,  Skid?" 
I  asked  one  night  just  before  going  to  bed. 

Things  like  parties?  Once  nawhile.  Specially 
down  roun'  the  store;  dances  down  there  o'  young 
folks.  I  never  forget  'bout  the  Squire's  cold  New 
Year's  party  though.  Pop  never  tells  it  the  same 
twict  an'  es  Mom  says  'e  got  a  fearful  lot  o'  nem- 
bellishments  before  'e  turned  into  'is  Gret  Silens. 
He  practised  considerable  on  me  the  time  'e  was  on 
the  Gran'  Jury  down  et  Monticello.  I  'spect  'e 
wanted  to  bresh  up  so's  'e  could  make  it  interestin' 
to  th'  ethers  'ith  'im. 

Onct  I  ast  'im,  "  Pop,  'bout  how  col'  was  it  thet 
time  w'en  you  hed  thet  big  New  Years  blow  out?  " 

"Whut's  thet  Skid?  How  col'?  Lordy  me 
Skid,  ther  is  no  way  atellin'.  Thet  was  the  time 
w'en  it  was  cold  enough  to  bust  any  thermometer  on 
earth,  pervidin'  they  hed  any.  Thet  was  before 
thermom'ters  was  invented.  Col'  ?  That  aint  any 
name  fer  it,  by  bing!  Col'?  Ther  aint  any  lan- 
guage ferin  er  United  Stateser  es  can  do  the  describ- 
in'.  W'y  Skid,  gol  ding  it !  it  busted  lots  o'  trees 

55 


56  Pufferland 

wide  open.      They  jes'  kep'  a  poppin'  all  night  'ith 
frost,  like  the  battle  o'  Chattanooga. 

"  F'instans;  ef  you  throwed  up  a  tincup  o'  water 
it'd  rattle  down  in  a  million  icicles  an' — an'  snow. 
Pervided  Skid,  remember  I'm  sayin'  pervided,  ef 
you  was  mighty  quick  about  it.  Ef  you  wasn't  it'd 
freeze  solid  an'  bust  the  tincup  right  in  yer  han'. 
It  was  leas'  forty  degrees  b'low  Cairo, — er — say? 
thet  don't  seem  the  right  word  neither. 

"  It  froze  ev'ry  cat  in  nine  mile  solid.  Sech  a 
night  fer  cats  thet  was!  Mighty  me-e-e!  Ev'ry 
can  o'  fruit  in  the  cellar  was  busted  skyhigh  and  evry 
winder  hed  fros'  mebby  a  foot  thick  next  mornin'. 

"The  day  before  New  Years  was  foggy,  nen  it 
turned  to  drizzle,  nen  rain,  nen  we  piled  to  bed. 
I  woke  up  'bout  midnight.  Golly  whee-ee!  W'y 
Skid,  th'  ice  was  a  foot  thick  roun'  my  mouth  on 
my  wiskers.  I  was  froze  fast.  I  jumped  up  to 
buil'  da  fire  to  keep  from  freezin'  to  death.  And 
by  bing!  I  drug  two  covers  off'n  the  bed  froze 
tight  to  my  beard.  I  guess  I  looked  jes'  like  Nagra 
Falls  froze  up. 

"  I  c'menct  to  buil'  fires.  In  the  fireplace,  in  the 
heatin'  stove,  in  the  kitching  stove  jes'  a  draggin' 
them  bedclothes  roun'  on  my  wiskers.  Mom  jumped 
out  to  git  warm  et  the  fireplace  an'  the  minnit  she 
tetched  the  floor  the  chilbrames  lit  into  'er.  She 
hed  'em  fer  years  clean  to  'er  knees.  Talk  about 
col'! 

'  'Bout  then  we  heerd   guns,   yessir  guns.     An' 
whut  d'y  think  it  was?      You  couldn't  guess  in  a 


The  Rorybilius  57 

thousin'  years.  The  frost  hed  jus'  reached  the  cellar 
an'  them  fruit  cans  was  jes'  shootin'  off.  Cans  to 
the  righ'  toy  us,  cans  to  the  lef  tov  us;  cans  to 
the — the  cans  comin'  up  at  us  by  thunder  an'  light- 
nin'.  Never  in  my  born  days  did  I  hear  before 
sech  a  battin'  an'  bangin',  'ith  cannons  now  and  nen, 
thet  was  the  crout  barl  and  the  sugar  water  beer 
barl  explodin'. 

"  Skid  I  don'  min'  tellin'  private  thet  not  knowin' 
whut  it  was  et  firs  I  was  kin'do, — thet  is  kin'do — er — 
flabbergasted.  Anyways  I  took  a  candle  and  opened 
the  door  an'  looked  out.  Skid  I'll  be  teetotally  gol- 
dinged  ef  it  wasn't  so  col'  thet  it  froze  the  flame 
square  off  right  down  to  the  taller.  Yer  mother 
said  it  mus'  be  the  win'.  Nix  I  tell  you-u.  An' 
the  snow  an'  sleet  'ith  the  fireplace  shinin'  on  'em ! 
It  looked  jes'  like  parydise.  Fer  a  fac'  Skid,  jes' 
like  parydise. 

"  An'  while  I  stood  ther,  mebby  in  a  tranct,  mebby 
freezin'  to  death,  yer  mother  jumped  et  me  an'  drug 
me  safte.  She  was  jes'  in  time  Skid,  jes'  in  time. 
One  secon'  more  and  I  would  abeen  a  corpse.  Wen 
she  slammed  the  door  to,  mebby  a  ninch  o'  frost  an' 
fine  snow  dropped  out  the  air  o'  the  rooms. 

"  But  in  Hevings  name  son  whut  do  you  think 
came  a  walkin'  through  thet  door  w'en  I  was  in  thet 
tranct?  Marchin',  waddlin'  like  sojers  single  file 
right  up  to  the  fireplace?" 

"  Owls,  Pop."  I  hed  heard  'bout  them  owls 
more'n  onct. 

"  .Yessir,  by  thunder !  them  'levin  screetch  owls. 


58  Pufferland 

They  marched  right  up  to  the  fireplace  an'  turned 
ther  backs,  'levin  of  'em  an'  mebby  twelve  fer  I 
aint  very  good  accountin'.  I  tol'  yer  mother,  says 
I,  '  Angelina  whut  do  you  s'pose  wy  them  screetch 
owls  come  in  ?  ' 

"  An'  she  said,  *  Abe  I  jes'  fergit  now  'bout  them 
owls.  I  thought  thet  was  whut  Sim  Puffer  tol'  et 
the  party.'  Skid  them  was  Puffer  owls,  Squire  Puf- 
fer owls.  Dad  bust  Sim  Puffer;  'e  never  hed  a 
fireplace  in  'is  hull  life.  Screetch  owls  awarmin' 
'emsevs  et  Sim's !  4  Dad  burn  Sim  Puffer !  '  says  I, 
to  Mom, — th'  oP  crawfish  eater! 

"  You  can  jes'  bet  yer  sweet  gizzards  thet  was  a 
coP  time,  fer  the  air  was  thet  tight  froze  es  them 
ghost  owls  c'dn't  fly. 

"  Mom  an'  me  drug  the  bed  up  near  the  fireplace 
and  turned  in.  Long  w'ile  though  'fore  we  got  to 
sleep  cause  them  fruit  cans  was  'casionally  bustin'  an' 
nothin'  got  ca'm  tell  the  neatfoot  ile  jug  went  off 
jes'  like  a  Fourth  o'  July  anvil  down  at  Monticello. 
Nen  we  dropped  off. 

"  Es  I  hed  piled  on  three  feather  ticks  an'  nine 
blankets  we  slep'  purty  soun'.  But  w'en  I  woke  up 
in  the  mornin'  ther  was  them  poor  little  screetch  owls 
corpses  on  the  harth.  Jes'  nothin'  on  this  yer  earth 
could  stan'  forever  a  coP  snap  like  o'  thet.  No 
siree-ee. 

"  I  piled  'bout  a  cord  o'  shellbark  on  the  fireplace 
an'  things  c'menst  to  limber  up  some.  Efter  puttin' 
hot  coals  an'  ashes  in  my  boots  fer  'bout  a  nour 
I  got  so  es  I  could  dror  'em  on.  Nen  I  moseyed  out 


The  Rorybilius  59 

t'  see  how  much  was  lef  talive.  Jes'  four  hens, 
three  horses,  one  old  barrow  es  hed  no  ears,  an' 
wich  nothin'  could  kill  'cept  a  tiger,  an'  les'  see,  I 
guess  'cept  a  cow  or  two,  yes,  thet  was  all  es  was 
lef  talive,  t'  tell  the  tale. 

"  Wen  I  come  back  Mom  was  tryin'  to  chop  up 
the  sassige  'ith  a  nax,  an'  teetotally  give  up.  Ther 
was  no  water,  an'  th'  aigs  an'  milk  in  the  spring 
house  was  covered  'bout  ten  foot  'ith  ice. 

"  I'll  tell  you  'bout  thet.  You  see  the  spring  hed 
run  'bout  forty  million  barls  durin'  the  night.  It 
hed  froze  et  the  milk  house  door  an'  comin'  back 
to  the  reservoir,  freezin'  es  it  come,  tell  it  reached 
the  five-inch  iron  mouth.  The  water  in  th'  earth 
'course  didn't  freeze  tell  it  come  out.  Nen  it  run 
over  the  ice  an'  c'menct  to  pile  up.  Yessir  it  was 
leas'  ten  foot  right  over  the  top  o'  thet  spring  house. 
Ther  was  the  aigs  an'  butter  safte,  but  who  on  earth 
could  chop  into  them?  I  am  sayin'  emphatic  son, 
it  was  impossible.  Ther  was  the  aigs  an'  butter  an' 
milk  an'  ther  was  thet  iceberg  ontop  mebby  forty 
foot  thick.  Spread  over  mebby  a  nacre  too.  Tell 
you  Skid,  things  looked  mighty  blue  roun'  ther  fer 
vittals  fer  awile. 

"  Nen  Angie  an'  me  got  a  candle  an'  dug  into 
the  cellar.  You  'member  wen  I  was  in  Kentucky 
peddlin'  thet  Safety  Fire  Kindler  es  exploded  an' 
burnt  my  hair  an'  wiskers  off  es  I  tol'  you  'bout? 
You  'member  I  saw  the  Mamoth  cave?  Them 
stallyactites  hangin'  and  all  thet?  Well  sir,  the 
cellar  hed'  em  jes'  the  same  made  out  'n  razberries, 


60  Pufferland 

gooseberries,  jam,  sealin'  wax,  crout,  jams  an'  jellies, 
all  jes'  hangin'  from  the  kitching  floor  perfec'ly  mixed 
an'  mixed.  Sech  a  goldinged  mixter  es  the  worl' 
never  seen  before  er  sence.  The  crout  barl  'sploded 
nex'  to  las'  an'  made  them  vittals  fuzzy  'ith  crout, 
and  the  neatfoot  ile  was  the  las'  tetch  o'  flavor. 

"  I  chopped  one  off  one  icicle  fer  Angie  and  an- 
ether  fer  me  an'  suckin'  'em  an'  spittin'  out  the  ceilin' 
wax  an'  things  es  was  too  rank,  we  made  out.  But 
ther  was  part  of  a  nol'  mouse  trap  w'ich  'ith  the  neat- 
foot  ile  kin'  do  spiled  the  'joymen'  of  it.  I  guess 
thet  is  whut  they  call  frozen  frickisee  down  to  In- 
dianapolis. 

"  I  forgot  to  tell  you  'bout  them  aigs  in  the  nice 
house.  Wen  th'  ice  melted  off  'bout  the  Fourth,  we 
busted  in  the  door.  An'  Skid,  whut  do  you  s'pect? 
You  couldn't  guess  in  a  thousan'  years." 

"Chickens,  Pop?"  I  ast  'im  Clonel  French, 
feelin'  es  ef  I  ought  to  throw  in  a  nidea  er  two  fer 
them  gran'jurors  down  at  Monty.  He  scratched 
'is  head  es  ef  thet  was  kin'  do  new  on  him.  'E 
kindo  was  thoughtful,  nen  bust  out,  "  Skid  who  in 
thunder  toP  you?  S'pect  I  did  though." 

"  Yessir,  ee-ee  bobstail, — two  hull  tubsful  o' 
cheepin'  chicks,  jes'  ready  fer  ther  firs'  snack  o'  corn 
meal.  The  spring  house  bein'  covered  'ith  ice  got 
so  warm  thet  they  hatched.  I  tell  you  Skid,  thet 
was  lucky.  'Taint  of'n  a  feller  can  raise  poultery  in 
a  niceberg.  Not  very  goldurn  of'n  Skid.  I  tipped 
over  them  tubs  an'  gittin'  Angie  to  count,  'cause  I 
can't  swing  sech  numbers  fer  certain,  an'  ther  was 


The  Rorybilius  61 

over,  less  see,  over,  er — yes,  over  nine  'underd  an' 
fifty  nine  chicks  besides,  ef  I  'member  jes'  right, 
there  was  a  'underd  and  'leven  thet  was  pippin'  but 
we  saved  even  them  all  ri'." 

Clonel  I  tol'  Mom  bout  thet  chicking  hatchin' 
onct.  She  was  churnin',  but  she  stopped  an'  ast 
me  'bout  it  agin.  I  'splained  it  careful.  She  shook 
'er  head  an'  looked  tired. 

"  Es  thet  all  ri'  Mom?"  last. 

"Them's  jus'  embellishmens  Skid." 

"Whut's  embellishmens  Skid?"  she  ast.  "You 
might  ast  Squire  'bout  'em."  But  goin'  back  to 
Pop.  Nen  I  ast  Pop  'bout  the  party  New  Years 
night. 

"  Skid  thet's  it.  I  was  dreadfully  worried  'bout 
thet.  We  sent  our  forty  invites  an'  cooked  fer  sixty. 
We  counted  on  'bout  two  dozen  es  'd  nachurly  drop 
in  'cause  this  Ridge  kin'do  drops  in  w'en  ther's  eatin' 
goin'  on.  Everybody  es  hed  a  ninvite  was  tol'  pri- 
vate to  keep  it  mighty  clost  to  ther  stomacks,  but 
spite  of  all,  extra  dropped  in  kin'do  natchural  an' 
lookin'  devilish  hungry.  Ther  was  Sim  an'  Reddic 
o'  Piqua  an'  OF  Ann,  an'  Black  Puffer  'ith  is  one 
eye  an'  double  stomack  like  a  bear,  Lige  Tramphorn 
who  never  hed  enough  fried  mush  in  'is  life;  less  see, 
Doc  Poppinal  who  lives  down  by  Reynol's  an'  hes 
cramps  wen  'e  aint  drunk,  an'  spen's  leas'  half  the 
time  in  the  calaboose. 

"  Ther  was  four  half-breed  Puffers  from  roun' 
down  'bout  the  Store  es  come  'bout  'leven  o'clock  an' 
was  goin'  to  make  a  rough  house  'cause  they  didn't 


62  Pufferland 

git  a  ninvite.  I  licked  two.  Jelly  Puffer  chased 
one  into  the  bresh  fer  a  mile.  But  you  want  to 
'member  Skid,  Jelly  is  the  bigges'  liar  'ith  cross  eyes 
an'  tow  hair  es  ever  looked  two  ways  to  onct.  'Sides 
the  cuss  'e  ramped  after,  hed  jes'  got  over  the  small- 
pox an'  was  weak  es  a  sick  hen. 

"  Yer  mother  an'  me  piled  on  hickory  cordwood 
all  forenoon  tryin'  to  thaw  the  pies  an'  cakes  an' 
things  she  hed  cooked  the  day  before.  W'y  they 
was  thet  froze  you  couldn't  abore  in  'em  'ith  a  gimlet. 
W'y  onct  jes'  to  show  Angie  how  hard  they  was 
froze,  I  struck  the  ax  right  down  in  the  stomack 
of  a  cake  and  I'll  be  hongswoggled  Skid,  if  the 
sparks  didn't  fly  out  an' — an'  set  the  dishrag  afire. 
Fer  a  fac'  Skid. 

"  'Bout  noon  I  hed  melted  the  periperies  o'  nine 
cakes  and  sixteen  elderberry  pies." 

"The  wich?"  I  ast  Pop. 

"  Periperies  son.  Them  words  comie  easy  to  me. 
W'y  sir,  them  cakes  in  ther  periperies  looked  like 
scrambled  aigs  'ith  a  high  fever  in  ther  vitals.  We 
hed  one  thing  thet  saved  the  day, — thet  sugarwater 
beer  es  was  a  chunk  of  ice.  I  chopped  it  up  an' 
melted  a  hull  barl.  Nen  w'en  Angie  was  mournin' 
over  them  scrambled  pies  an'  cakes,  feelin'  kin'  do 
gay  I  mixed  'bout  ten  gallon  o'  hard  cider  in.  Skid 
thet  hard  cider  was  strong  'nough  to  hold  up  a  niron 
wedge. 

"Nen  'bout  dusk,  'cept  some  women  es  come  over 
to  help  yer  mother,  the  Ridge  people  c'menct  to 
show  up.  Skid  whut  do  you  think  is  the  population 


The  Rorybilius  63 

of  this  here  Ridge?  Well  sir,  it  looked  mighty  like 
es  of  evrybody  fer  thirty  mile  was  jes'  droppin'  in, 
droppin'  in,  droppin'  in. 

"  But  most  evrybody  fetched  something.  Jake 
Spading's  woman  fetched  thawed  pickles  an'  crout; 
Hi  Stickle's  woman  about  a  peck  o'  walnut  taffy  candy 
made  out'n  maple  sugar.  Ther  aint  much  better 
tastin'  stuff  on  this  earth  son.  Ef  I  hed  to  die  eatin', 
jus'  give  me  walnut  taffy  made  out'n  maple  sugar, 
an'  I  would  let  all  my  frien's  do  the  weepin'  and 
I  would  jes'  go  on  dyin'  an'  eatin'  walnut  maple 
molasses  taffy.  I  don't  jes'  know  how  much  I  could 
eat,  if  I  hed  it,  but  I  wouldn't  think  o'  stoppin'  short 
a  half  a  rain  barl  full. 

"  Jelly  Puffer's  wife,  she's  a  reglar  ol'  mammy 
cook  from  the  Rappyhannock  valley,  fetched  a  layer 
cake  'bout  two  foot  acrost  an'  spread  over  'ith  frost 
sugar  an'  ornymented  'ith  conversation  candy  hearts. 
She  fetched  besides  a  nacorn  ham,  sugar  cured,  an' 
hed  it  boiled  in  cider,  an'  nex'  to  dyin'  eatin'  maple 
taffy,  jes'  turn  me  loose  Skid,  on  one  o'  her  cider 
biled  hams  an'  I  wouldn't  care  ef  I  hed  to  die  twict. 

"  Less  see,  Ann,  the  ol'  girl  es  hes  visions  evry 
new  moon  an'  come  out'n  the  ark,  I  guess,  fetched 
over  'er  fortune  tellin'  cards  an'  three  quarts  o' 
roasted  chinquapins.  It  was  them  little  black  acorns 
Skid,  es  firs'  induced  ramagrants  into  this  here  sec- 
tion o'  country.  Ole  Oleson  brought  over  two  quart 
bottles  o'  Logansport  hilarity  wich  we  mixed  in  the 
tub  of  sugar  water  beer.  Nen  old  Black  Puffer. 
His  woman  fetched  two  pints  o'  Monticello  rye.  Oh 


64  Pufferland 

you  can  bet  the  Olesons  never  miss  the  high  steppin' 
stuff  tell  the  well  runs  dry,  neither." 

"  I  didn't  know  es  they  hed  a  well  Pop,"  I  said 
to  'im. 

"  No,  they  haint.  But  in  the  beautiful  future 
they're  agoin'  to  dig  one  all  ri'.  Whut  they  brought 
'ith  'em  Skid,  is  a  private  matter,  but  ef  a  feller 
was  dyin'  in  a  desert  fer  water  an'  ther  was  nothin' 
in  forty  mile  'cept  whut  they  hed,  wy  efter  takin'  it 
more'n  likely  a  feller  wouldn't  know  whether  'e  was 
dyin'  'ith  thirst,  er  whether  'e'd  chawed  off  a  chunk 
o'  hell. 

"  Somebody  fetched  a  peck  o'  hazel  nuts,  ethers 
walnuts  and  big  hickory  nuts  an'  ol'  deaf  an'  dumb 
Puffer  done  sothin'  to  excuse  'is  cussidness  ef  enything 
would.  He  brought  over  a  two  gallon  jug  o'  honey 
mead  jes'  seven  weeks  old.  Honey  mead  jes'  seven 
weeks  ol'  'ith  anise  seed  in  it  and  mint  flavored  is 
a  thing  of  beauty  an'  da  joy  f'rever. 

"  Es  it  hed  turned  kin'  do  warm  in  the  efternoon 
an'  da  few  hed  dirt  cellars  es  didn't  freeze  we  hed 
the  mos'  didrappines'  layout  es  ever  festered  'long 
the  San'hill  road.  An'  whut  made  the  hull  thing  a 
mos'  auspicious  occasion,  ther  was  more'n  a  plenty 
jes'  es  long  es  anybody  hed  the  ability  to  keep  on 
layin'  things  away. 

"  'Bout  midnight  ther  wasn't  more'n  two  er  three 
of  us,  includin'  a  sprinklin'  o'  women,  es  could  tetch 
the  pints  o'  ther  two  fingers  together  the  firs'  time 
they  tried.  They  was  jes'  thet  joyful. 

"  The  sorrorful  part  of  it  was  thet  the  sugarwater 


The  Rorybilius  65 

beer  seemed  to  fly  right  up  to  the  top  of  a  feller's 
hair.  Mos'  evrybody  was  singin'  diff'rent  songs  an' 
hymns  et  the  same  time.  You  could  slice  the  smoke 
'ith  a  case  knife  it  was  so  blamed  thick.  Nen  old 
Sim  got  out  'is  fiddle  an'  played  *  Money  Musk,' 
4  Soldier's  Joy,'  '  Arkansaw  Traveler,'  and  w'en  'e 
'ith  'is  eyes  a  rollin'  an'  'is  foot  a  stampin'  keepin' 
time  es  shook  the  teakettle  so  it  rattled,  w'y  evrybody, 
'cept  Angie,  squared  off  fer  a  dance. 

"  Skid  y'  ought  to've  seen  thet.  A  few  of  'em, 
not  bein'  in  the  set,  hed  private  hoedowns  in  the  cor- 
ner. Nen  the  dust  rose  up.  Ther  was  two  sets 
in  the  kitching  and  one  in  the  settin'  room  agoin' 
et  the  same  time.  And  I  want  to  say  private  Skid, 
thet  it  was  pretty  hard  on  the  furnichur.  You  see 
some  of  'em  didn't  track  any  too  well. 

"  'Bout  a  nour  efterwards  the  supper  was  ready. 
Nen  I  made  a  little  speech.  You  know  son,  I'm 
purty  good  et  thet  ef  I  do  say't  myse'f. 

"  Mom  tol'  me  nex'  day  she  s'pected  it  was  ten 
minutes  before  she  could  tell  jes'  whut  I  was  drivin' 
et.  But  I  know  it  was  'bout  liberty,  union  an'  the 
pursuit  o'  happiness  one  an'  dinseprable  f'rever. 

"  An'  w'en  I  come  to  the  peoration  Reddic  hed 
kin'  do  swiped  a  plate  o'  crulls  'ith  'is  eyes  rolled 
up  to'ards  the  ceilin'  es  ef  'e  was  in  a  tranct.  Thet's 
whut  made  me  break  off  so  sudden  Skid.  He  was 
the  ony  gol  dang  geezer  es  hed  the  gall  to  swipe 
crulls  w'en  I  was  the  mos'  eloquent.  Angie  said 
nex'  day  w'en  she  spoke  slow  and  in  a  clear  voice 
so's  I  could  understan'  thet  I  was  eloquent,  nen- 


66  Pufferland 

tirely  too  gosh  blamed  eloquent  fer — fer  any  use 
atall. 

"  Nen  efter  'bout  a  nour  w'en  we  was  tellin'  our 
'sperience  'bout  the  col'  the  night  before,  mebby 
though  we  was  eatin'  'bout  a  nour  an'  da  half,  w'y 
Sim  told  es  how  'e'd  run  through  'is  fireplace  seven 
times  w'en  'e  got  up  and  'e  didn't  even  feel  the  heat, 
but  'e  did  make  the  floor  sloppy  by  meltin'.  Ef 
Sim'd  said  'e  allus  paid  fer  his  smokin'  it  couldn't  a 
surprised  us  more."  I  ast  Pop  how  Sim  lived. 
"  Skid  thet  beast  hes  not  hed  enough  to  eat  fer  forty 
years  'cept  thet  time." 

"  W'y  Pop,"  says  I,  "  'e  hes  to  live  an'  to  live  'e's 
jus'  got  t'  eat."  Thet  made  Pop  snort,  for  'e  don't 
like  Sim  any  more'n  'e  does  Jelly. 

"  'E  don't  live,  'e's  jes'  a  livin'  corpse.  Jes'  swigs 
swamp  water  an'  smokes  home  made  tobaccer.  An' 
Skid,  I  don't  want  to  cas'  spicions  on  my  neighbors, 
but  Sim  does  all  'is  tobaccer  farmin'  et  night.  Oh, 
o'  course  Skid,  'e  sometimes  hev  a  snack  o'  wood- 
peckers, mebby  a  groun'  mole,  p'raps  a  crawfish  er 
two,  but  fer  a  reglar  diet  give  Sim  fishworms  and 
'e's  happy.  An'  ther's  ony  one  liar  in  forty  mile 
es  can  hoi'  a  candle  to  ol'  one-eyed  Sim  'ith  'is  double 
stomack,  an'  thet  animal  is  thet  grinnin'  cross-eyed 
monkey,  'ith  'is  eyes  tryin'  to  crawl  into  'is  nose, 
thet  yellow  haired  shoat  Jelly  Puffer.  He's  bigger. 
Jelly  lies  wen  'e  does  'is  level  best  jes'  tryin'  to  tell 
the  truth. 

"  Nen  bout  2  o'clock,  we  was  settin'  ther  jes'  tired 
out.  Everything  was  nigh  still.  Some  was  a  dozin' 


The  Rorybilius  67 

off  in  ther  chairs  an'  benches.  Reddic  o'  Piqua  was 
nibblin'  roun'  yit  tryin'  to  see  ef  ther  was  any  room 
inside  o'  'im  fer  temptin'  furder.  Even  the  women 
wasn't  talkin'  an'  w'en  you  git  a  gang  o'  swamp 
women  es  can't  talk  w'y  the  worl'  is  'bout  comin' 
to  a  conclusion. 

"  Right  then  w'en  evrything  was  'bout  still  es  a 
corpse,  a  nowl  es  big  es  a  churn,  flyin'  a  mile  a  minnit, 
came  boomity  boom  bust  right  through  the  winder. 
It  scattered  glass  forty  ways  fer  Sunday,  an'  bein' 
half  killed,  it  tumbled  roun'  over  the  vittals,  and 
wrestled  'ith  death  right  ther  in  the  middle  o' 
the  table.  Sech  a  scattering  breakin',  flounderin', 
screetchin'  an'  mixen'  the  lord  God  of  Hosts  never 
saw  before  er  sence. 

"  Nen  w'en  it  hed  about  four  pound  of  butter  an' 
molasses  and  ether  grub  on  it,  it  bounced  right  off'n 
the  table  into  the  sugarwater  beer  tub  an'  died  'ith 
its  wings  stickin'  out  'bout  four  foot.  Ther  wasn't 
ony  a  reg'lar  wreck  but  mebby  four  bushel  o'  feathers 
floatin'  an'  settlin'  on  things. 

"  Skid  I  never  had  'em  in  my  whole  born  days,  but 
some  o'  the  rest  hed.  Wen  the  mixed  bran'  we  hed 
'd  make  a  feller  see  owls  it's  'bout  time  to  call  in 
the  doctors.  Snakes  is  a  mos'  mil'  dinsect  beside  a 
nowl  under  sech  circumstances.  Nothin'  like  thet 
can  disturb  my — my  susquanimity  ner  infract  my 
rashsheoshenashun.  I  rose  up  dignified  and  says: 
'  Ladies,  gen'lemen,  frien's  and  neighbors,  an'  dethers 
es  may  be  here,  this,  this  animal  is  a  nowl.'  Wasn't 
them  corkin'  words  Skid? 


68  Pufferland 

"  Well  did  them  assurin'  words  calm  thet  goldang 
gang?  Lord-omighty  no-o.  Right  about  then  Sally 
Stickle  screamed  like  a  dyin'  panther. 

"  *  Run !  Run !  the  worl's  onfire !  '  And  sure 
'nough  it  was.  We  tumbled  out'n  the  house  like 
sheep  goin'  crost  a  bridge  chased  by  a  dog.  I  never 
s'pect  to  see  anether  sight  like  thet. 

"  In  the  north  the  hull  hevings  was  burnin'  up. 
Mebby  the  tub  o'  sugarwater  beer  kin'  do  spiled 
the  steadiness  of  our  eyes  fer  a  minit,  but  sure  ther 
was  flames  a  million  miles  high  ravin',  gleamin', 
shootin'  roun'  red,  pink,  blue,  yeller,  tremblin',  mixin', 
wrestlin'  like  fightin'  tomcats.  Nen  evrything  'd 
get  still  an'  jes'  tremble  an'  flicker  an'  wait.  Nen 
up  she  would  twist  an'  turn  inside  out  in  a  thousan' 
gleamin'  colors  like  the  las'  piece  o'  magic  lantern. 

"  An'  sech  yellin'  an'  screamin' — wy  bout  half 
the  women  hed  ther  apurns  over  ther  heads  moanin' 
an'  Reddic  o'  Piqua  was  out  kneelin'  in  the  snow 
aprayin'.  Jelly  hed  snatched  a  piece  o'  rag  carpet 
an'  flingin'  it  over  'is  head  was  hidin'  under  the 
lilac  bush.  Black  Puffer  was  runnin'  roun'  from 
one  to  a  nether  sayin'  ef  the  Lord  'd  excuse  'im  jes' 
this  las'  time,  'e  never,  never  so  help  him  God  'e'd 
never  tech  a  nether  drop.  Ol'  Ann  was  throwin' 
'er  arms  wide  tryin'  to  grab  thet  fire  in  the  sky  an' 
yellin'  '  Whee-ee-ee !  '  You  could  aheerd  'er  four 
mile.  Crazy?  jes'  springin'  up  like  a  cat  'ith  a  fit. 

"  I  never  did  see  sech  a  scared  crowd,  an'  never 
in  my  whole  born  days  did  I  see  a  scarrier  thing 
up  ther  in  the  sky.  And  Skid,  all  I  did  wile  they 


The  Rorybilius  69 

was  runnin'  roun'  es  scared  es  if  you  hed  stuck  a 
stick  in  a  nanthill,  was  jes'  to  fol'  m'arms  like  Bony- 
parte  acrossin'  th'  Alps  er  starin'  brazen  right  into 
the  face  o'  them  pyramids.  Jes'  proud  an'  col'  like, 
an'  waitin'  fer  'em  to  recover  ther  rasheoshenashun 
details  an'  perspective." 

"  I  guess  the  Squire  always  had  his  nerve  with  him, 
Skid?  Eh?" 

Well  Clonel,  I  ast  partic'lar  of  Mom  jes'  whut 
Pop  did  do  durin'  thex  'citemen'  an'  she  said,  "  Et 
first  Pop  went  a  hoopin'  to  the  barn  an'  c'menct  to 
harness  up  Jinn  an'  Bett.  'E'd  fergot  'is  hat  an' 
wen  she  come  a  runnin'  up  'e  was  a  talkin'  to  'imsef 
sayin',  '  Ef  I  ever  see  Dick  Winters  agin  in  this  worT 
I'll  give  'im  evry  las'  cent  ef  I  never  hev  anether  bite 
to  eat  in  my  whole  born  days.' ' 

"Who  is  Dick  Winters,  Skid?"  I  asked. 

W'y  Vs  th'  assessor.  He  nearly  allus  can  fin' 
Pop  the  secon'  er  third  trip.  But  the  rest  o'  the 
Puffers  hes  mos'ly  to  be  tracked  down  'ith  houn's  ef 
Dick  gits  to  'em.  'Cept  Jelly  Puffer.  Pop  said 
wen  'e  was  supervisor,  the  best  tax  year  outside 
'im  an'  Jelly  brought  in  $1.37.  Nen  seventeen  of 
'em  come  before  the  Equalizin'  Board  fer  excess 
taxes. 

Mom  said  she  found  'im  sweatin'  an'  talkin' 
to  'imsef  an'  jus'  hed  Jinn's  collar  down  ready  to 
put  it  on  the  mare.  Nen  Mom  'splained  thet  it 
was  the  Northe'n  lights  es  was  perfec'ly  harmless. 
She  said  Pop  kep'  pettin'  an'  smoothin'  the  horse  col- 
lar an'  tryin'  to  understan'  her  words. 


70  Pufferland 

"  Es  it  perfec'ly  safte  Angle,  don't  we  need  the 
doctor?  " 

It  couldn't  hurt  a  flea,  she  told  'im.  Nen  Pop, 
shakin'  'is  hed  an'  talkin'  to  'issef,  follored  Mom 
back  to  the  house  efter  she  hed  'splained  some  more. 

"  Whut  did  you  say  thet  scientific  name  was 
Angie?"  Pop  called  efter  'er. 

"  Aurora  borealis,"  answered  Mom,  hurryin'  back 
kin'do  to  settle  the  women  es  was  scared  'bout  nigh 
to  death.  OF  Ann  hed  run  into  the  house  an'  cas' 
ta  fit  under  the  bed  an'  Mom  was  tendin'  'er.  Efter 
awhile  she  said  she  went  out  adoors  to  quiet  things. 
An'  ther  was  Pop  talkin'  gran'  to  the  res'  'bout  the 
Rorybilius  'ith  Jinn's  collar  'round  'is  neck  an'  not 
knowin'  much  whut  'e  said. 

"Skid  I'd  like  fer  you  to  keep  private  about  thet 
horse  collar,"  Mom  tol'  me.  "  Ef  I  want  to  cut  Abe's 
feathers  right  down  to  the  pint  all  I  hev  to  say  is, 
4  Abe  jest  about  how  is  the  harness  business  this 
spring?  ' 

"  How  did  it  all  en'  Pop?  "  I  ast  'im  onct. 

'  Well  science  is  mighty  pacificatin'.  I  jes'  stood 
ther  'ith  my  arms  acrost  my  breas'  splainin'  the  sciens 
of  it.  First  thing  I  see  was  Reddic  sneakin'  into  the 
house  an'  comenct  to  sniff  'roun'  the  table.  Nen 
Jelly  come  out  slow  from  the  lilac  bush  'is  eyes  rollin' 
an'  lookin'  cautious.  We  all  went  in  efter  awile  an' 
ther  was  Reddic  eatin'  a  full  meal  agin.  'E  was 
makin'  'imsef  square  'ith  ol'  Rory  by  prayin'  an' 
was  makin'  sure  'e  couldn't  hoi'  anether  bite  before 
'e  quit. 


The  Rorybilius  71 

11 1  tell  you  Skid,  thet  was  a  mighty  quiet  crowd 
wen  we  went  into  the  house  agin.  Nobody  was 
sayin'  a  thing.  All  the  noise  we  heerd  was  the 
smackin'  an'  rattle  of  Reddic  an'  the  breathin'  of 
ol'  Sim. 

"  Efter  aw'ile  Sim  rose  up  sayin',  '  Folkses  ef  thet 
wasn't  the  worP  burnin'  up  et  the  north  en',  et  leas' 
'twas  hell  shinin'  out  o'  the  winders  on  the  clouds. 
I  caint  fiddle,  er  eat,  er  drink  no  more.  I'm  agoin' 
back  homte  ef  some  one  '11  come  'long  'ith  me.' ' 

"  Blacky  ol'  cuss  let's  skin  out,  ugh?  "  asked  Sim. 
And  evrybody  talkin'  in  wispers,  Pop  said,  slunk  out 
fer  home  castin'  scarry  looks  over  ther  shoulders  up 
ther  to  them  north  clouds  es  was  slowin'  down  blue 
and  col'. 


CHAPTER  VIII 
A  MEMBER  OF  THE  PUFFER  FAMILY 

"  COIN'  to  take  anether  pull  Clonel?  "  asked  Skid 
one  night  about  eleven  o'clock  as  I  was  thinking  of 
going  to  bed.  From  his  appearance  I  deemed  an- 
other smoke  might  prove  good  for  my  soul. 

"  Guess  I  will  try  that  new  tobacco.  Got  any 
news  about  Pufferdom  for  company,  Skid?  " 

I  was  thinkin'  about  Pop's  experience  'ith  settin' 
hens  an'  specially  'ith  'is  incubator.  One  spring  wen 
Mom  was  down  'ith  erysipels  fer  nigh  three  weeks 
an'  evrything  was  loose  at  both  en's  an'  run  down, 
wy  Pop  hed  to  do  lots  o'  new  kin's  o'  work.  'E 
bought  a  nincubator  from  a  nad  in  our  weekly  from 
a  Burlington  man.  Pop  said  efterwards  Burlington 
made  a  specialty  o'  subscription  books,  handwritin' 
an'  dincubators.  Thet  town,  'e  tol'  me,  educated 
nembitious  farmers  es  blieved  in  advertisemens. 

Pop  bought  it  by  mail  an'  went  clean  down  to 
Monon  to  git  it.  Wile  puttin'  it  up  it  fell  down 
twict,  besides  Pop  hed  to  stick  rags  in  it  to  keep  the 
sun  out  an'  the  hot  air  in.  'E  set  it  thet  night  'ith 
seven  dozen  real  aigs.  Pop  efter  readin'  the  direc- 
tions an'  some  circlers  'es  come  'long  'ith  it  said  'e 

72 


A  Member  of  the  Puffer  Family        73 

hed  a  goldang  notion  to  set  it  'ith  glass  aigs  it  seemed 
so  infernal  productiv'. 

The  firs'  seven  dozen  roasted.  The  secon'  seven 
dozen  froze.  The  third  seven  dozen  was  gittin' 
'long  to'ards  summer  an'  got  to  the  pippin'  stage. 
'E  was  so  excited  thet  'e  begin  talkin'  to  'imsef  mos' 
o'  the  time.  Coin'  to  bed  I  heard  'im  say  to  Mom : 

"Angie  by  the  eternal  lord  Harry,  tommory 
mornin'  in  this  year  of  Any  Dominy  we'll  hev  seven 
dozen  chicks  mos'ly  pullets,  layin'  two  aigs  a  day, 
ev'ry  last  eternal  one  of  'em  hatched  by  int'lect  an' 
machinery.  Whoo-oo-p-ee !  " 

"  Don't  go  to  yappin'  Abe,  till  after  countin'  your 
hatch,"  said  Mom.  She  allus  talked  better  'n  any 
of  us. 

Nex'  mornin'  'bout  daylight  I  heerd  Pop  knockin' 
aroun'  gittin'  dressed.  Nen  es  'e  went  out  'e  said: 

"  Komong  voo  potter  voo,  y'ol'  chicking  cadavery. 
Wee  befindin  su  seek,  you  geedanged  Burlington 
cackle  fact'ry."  'Bout  then  I  heard  'im  spring  out 
the  house,  nen  yellin',  nen  cracklin'  soun's.  The 
whole  shed  an'  dincubator  was  burnin'  up.  I  tell 
you  Clonel,  there  was  excitemen'  rarin'  up  on  its 
hin'  laigs  'roun'  ther  fer  'bout  half  a  nour. 

It  was  a  long  w'ile  efter  thet  'fore  Pop  got  over 
it.  Onct  wen  'e  seemed  to  be  thinkin'  solemn  'e 
ast  me  suddenly,  "  Skid  whut  you  think  made  thet 
geedanged,  misera-a-ble  incubator  burn  itself  to 
death?" 

"  I  wouldn't  wonder  Bet  Nore  got  to  snoopin' 
'roun'  here  jus'  to  tant  you,  an'  set  it  afire.  You 


74  Pufferland 

know  Genral  Torrance  says  the  whole  o'  Rome  was 
snooped  up  jus'  by  one  ol'  bull  emp'ror  'ith  'is  fiddle." 
He  sniggered  a  long  time  efter  thet.  I  never  heerd 
'im  laugh  sence  'bout  th'  incubator  though,  an'  de 
took  particlar  pains  never  to  mention  it  to  the  hunters. 
I  ast  'im  onct  to  tell  about  it  to  the  Gen'ral  'cause  I 
saw  the  night  before  things  was  leadin'  thet  way. 
Pop  was  sort  o'  feelin'  'roun'  an'  not  darin'  to  tell. 

"  Skid  ther  air  some  things  you  don't  ever  want 
to  tell:  like  about  love  letters,  fambly  matters  an' 
the  times  you  hev  been  licked.  I  was  buckin'  nature 
'raisin'  chickings  by  machinery.  The  Lord  never 
made  machinery  to  butt  in  an'  take  the  bread  out  o' 
the  mouth  o', — o',  well,  say  hens.  I  hev  borried  a 
basket  of  aigs  from  Spadings  an'  sence  the  female 
part  o'  this  'stablishmen'  is  down  'ith  erysipels  we 
hev  got  to  set  Cluck.  Come  on,  4  'Tis  the  voice  o' 
nature  speaks.'  ' 

We  went  into  the  house,  an'  pale  as  a  ghost  an' 
so  weak  she  could  hardly  set  up,  Mom  tol'  Pop  how 
to  perceed.  Fellow'd  think  it  was  easy  to  set  hens, 
but  it  aint.  Some  hens  want  to  set  on  darnicks  and 
cobs;  some  won't  set  on  nothin'  an'  some  is  inter- 
mitten'.  Hens  is  like  calves,  they  aint  got  no  sense 
any  time.  Some  air  so  scarry  ef  you  point  yer  finger 
at  'em  they  will  yell  at  you  like  a  guinea.  Them 
very  same  hens,  though,  w'en  settin'  '11  let  you  handle 
'em  es  ef  you  was  a  lovin'  frien'  o'  the  fambly.  An' 
the  scarries'  hen  on  earth  '11  fight  a  bufflo  wen  she's 
struttin'  'round  'ith  two  er  three  chicks. 

Mom  allus  said  men  wasn't  cackilated  to  set  hens 


A  Member  of  the  Puffer  Family        75 

any  more'n  they  could  do  fancy  tettin'.  An'  Pop 
toF  der  a  hen  didn't  hev  any  sense  noway  cause  ther 
heads  was  so  small  there  was  no  room  fer  anything 
but  the  cackle.  So  Pop  an'  me  got  the  basket  o' 
hen  aigs  out'n  the  spring  house  an'  went  in  to 
get  the  specifications  an'  rashsheoshenatin'  details. 
Mom  an'  Cluck  was  perticlar  frien's.  They  could 
gabble  frien'ly  es  two  deaf  an'  dumb  sisters  who 
hedn't  seen  each  ether  fer  a  year, — reg'lar  hen  talk. 
'Ith  Cluck  Mom  was  perfec'ly  at  home;  but  'ith  the 
Squire  Cluck  was  a  nentire  stranger. 

Efter  Mom  hed  toF  'bout  forty  times  how  to  set 
Cluck  Pop  flared  up.  "  Angelina  d'you  s'pose  I'm 
a  saber  toothed  Bengaul  tiger  er  jus'  a  snortin'  boo- 
rooloogoogaw  es  never  set  a  measly  oF  bunch  o' 
yeller  feathers?  Come  on  Skid,  let's  look  et  this 
member  o'  the  fambly  'ith  such  a  delicate  setter  on 
'er.  C'mong  'long."  An'  Pop  went  out  w'istlin'. 
Wen  Pop  wistles  'e  aint  all  fired  mad,  jus'  enough 
mad  es  makes  conversation  mos'ly  dangerous. 

I  tagged  'long,  o'  course,  heerin'  Pop  talkin'  to 
issef :  "  Reg'lar  pizon  case,  includin'  salt  an'  battery 
an'  danger  signals  flyin'  at  the  mast  on  the  court 
house.  GoF  blame  this  ol'  hen  convention  any- 
ways." 

Wen  Pop  got  out  to  wher  Cluck  was  hatchin'  out 
the  darnicks  an'  cobs  an'  mos'  wore  out,  'e  said  en- 
couragin',  "  Cluckie,  I  hev  come  out  'ith  my  beloved 
son  adoin'  ferin  missionery  work  to  save  yer  immor- 
tal gibblets.  Comprong  eevoof  Spreckin  su  Di-ii- 
tch?  Parlor  voo  Fransay?  Wee  gates,  huh,  yet, 


76  Pufferland 

still?  "  An'  all  Cluck  done  was  to  stare  an'  blink  at 
us  nentire  strangers.  She  didn't  know  any  more 
ferin  language  'n  Pop  did,  mebby  not  so  much. 
Cluck  was  kind  o'  pale  complexioned  an'  blinked  an' 
blinked,  w'ile  Pop  seemed  to  be  studyin'  'er  chanzcfc- 
ter. 

"  By  the  gret  Horn  spondulix  Missis  Cluckie,  I 
hev  come  out  as  yer  frien'.  D'you  give  me  the  right 
hand  o'  fellowship,  huh? 

"  Son,  this  is  a  serious  occasion  demandin'  the  mos' 
onstreperous  concatenation  o'  Darwinicks,"  an'  'ith 
the  wrinkle  roun'  'is  lef  eye  I  saw  'e  was  in  a  proper 
frame  o'  min'  to  do  Cluck  all  the  ferin  mission  work 
'e  hed  on  tap.  Nen  'e  got  one  'is  spells  an'  said, 
"  Sink  er  swim,  sarvive  er  perish,  I  give  my  aigs  to 
this — here  lady  in  buff."  He  got  down  an'  begun  to 
claw  out  the  nails  an'  cobs.  Cluck  looked  astonished. 
He  chucked  'bout  two  dozen  aigs  under  'er.  There 
was  a  row  roun'  the  edge  outside  o'  Cluck.  Pop 
was  treatin'  'er  soft,  but  right  in  the  perceedin's 
Cluck  took  a  fine  pick  out  the  back  o'  Pop's  han'. 
Pop  drew  back  es  ef  a  frien'  hed  suddenly  hit  'im 
right  in  the  stomick.  Wen  'e  saw  'is  han'  ableedin' 
a  little,  'e  snorted,  "  You  yeller  heifer,  who  d'  you 
s'pose  is  boss  'roun'  here?  "  an'  'e  kept  rubbin'  'is  han' 
an'  shakin'  'is  head.  "  Anether  mayhem  like  thet 
an'  somebody  'ill  be  carryin'  sothin'  out  dead,  lookin' 
like  a  scattered  punkin." 

Cluck  got  up  nervous  an'  turned  'roun'  a  few  times, 
'ith  'er  feathers  stuck  out  makin'  'er  look  'bout  as 
big  as  a  bushel  basket. 


A  Member  of  the  Puffer  Family       77 

"Suit  you  Cluckie  dear?"  said  Pop  sarcastic. 
"  Mebby  the  size  aint  right;  does  the  color  suit  yer 
complexion?  Mebby  you  want  'em  fried  er  turned 
over,  er  b'iled?  Praps  you  want  nails  an'  darnicks? 
Speak  up  Cluckie,"  said  Pop,  still  rubbin'  an'  lookin' 
sour  at  'is  han',  "  speak  right  up,  the  key  to  the  city 
is  yourn." 

"  Pop,"  I  tol'  dim,  "  ther's  too  many  aigs  under 
'er.  She's  smaller  w'en  settin'  'an  she  looks  now." 

"  Hollyhocks !  So  sh'  is,  so  sh'  is."  So  'e  lifted 
'er  off  an'  shoved  'er  to  one  side.  Nen  Cluck  went 
plumb  crazy.  She  flew  up  on  'is  back,  knocked  'is 
hat  off,  mussed  up  'is  hair  an'  lit  down  in  the  nes' 
breakin'  two  or  three  aigs,  evry  feather  tremblin'  'ith 
fight.  Pop  give  'er  a  cuff  under  the  bustle,  bouncin' 
'er  away  a  yard  er  so,  nen  she  come  swingin'  back. 
'E  scrouged  over  the  nes'  like  a  numbereller,  clawin' 
the  aigs  out  w'ile  Cluck  was  chargin'  at  'im  from 
behin'.  I  couldn't  hear  very  well  mongst  the  clashin' 
'cept,  "  Omlettes  'ith  hay,  an'  music  in  the  gallery." 

I  forget  all  the  things  thet  happened,  they  was 
comin'  so  quick,  but  in  one  o'  the  roun's  Cluck  took 
a  nunder  cut  an'  twisted  a  piece  blue  on  the  back 
o'  Pop's  han'  'bout  as  big  as  a  copper.  Nen  Cluck 
seein'  'er  day  was  off  fer  settin',  streaked  fer  the 
hog  hole  under  the  barn.  Pop  was  the  mos'  sur- 
prised an'  maddes'  man  in  the  whole  state  of  Indiany. 

"  Holy  cracky !  "  yelled  Pop  an'  suspectin'  Cluck's 
intentions  'e  cut  loose  efter  'er.  Cluck  o'  course 
was  stiff  in  the  laigs  but  pushed  'ith  'er  wings.  Pop, 
holdin'  'is  breath,  sailed.  Ef  Pop'd  yelled  ev'ry  jump 


78  Pufferland 

I  wouldn't  a  been  s'prised.  Thet's  the  way  dogs 
do  efter  a  rabbit,  'less  'e's  runnin'  'is  best.  Gosh! 
thet  was  a  hot  dash. 

Cluck  got  away  firs',  o'  course,  an'  was  'bout  half 
way  wen  Pop  soared.  'E  throwed  back  dirt  like 
a  race  horse. 

I  throwed  up  my  hat  an'  yelled,  "  Two  muskrat 
skins  on  Cluck  Pop !  "  Pop  was  holdin'  'is  breath 
an'  runnin'  so  hard  'e  couldn't  answer,  but  by  the 
extra  jump  'e  give  I  knowed  'e  took  me  up.  Both 
got  to  the  hole  together,  but  Cluck  nachurly  hed  a 
chanct  to  slow  down  under  the  barn  an'  Pop  hedn't. 
Jus'  then  Pop  give  'er  a  glancin'  kick  an'  knocked 
'er  to  the  ether  side  way  back  in  the  dark.  Bein's 
it  was  a  log  barn  an'  built  well,  Pop  stopped  agin  it. 
An'  all  the  dents  was  on  Pop. 

Besides  bein'  generally  strained  'e  was  mos'ly 
squshed  an'  tore  loose.  'E  didn't  seem  to  appreciate 
nothin'  but  jus'  rubbin'. 

I  can't  just  tell  you  how  'e  looked  wen  'e  come 
back,  but  'is  hair  was  hangin'  over  'is  eyes  like  rat 
tails  an'  'ith  sweatin',  rubbin'  an'  screwin'  'is  face 
'ith  hurtin',  'e  looked  mighty  frien'less.  "  Them 
skins  is  yourn  Pop  fer  speed,"  I  said,  wantin'  to  be 
safte.  Nen  we  both  saw  Mom  settin'  in  the  doorway 
'ith  her  face  an'  arms  in  'er  nightgown  cryin'. 

Gosh  blimmity!  I  felt  mean;  so  did  Pop.  We 
went  up  slow  to  'er,  fer  it  looked  es  ef  the  en'  do' 
the  worl'  was  comin'  fer  I  never  saw  Mom  bawl 
before. 

"  Cluck  was  like  a  baby  to  me  an'  now  you  have 


£ :. 


X  CLUCK  \VEXT  I-LUMB  CRAZY." 


A  Member  of  the  Puffer  Family        79 

gone  an'  kilt  her,"  and  'thout  lookin'  up  Mom  went 
on  cryin'  in  'er  arms,  an'  both  of  us  jus'  stood  there 
vvantin'  to  die  an'  couldn't.  Pop  wasn't  sayin'  any- 
thing, but  how  'e  did  get  worse  an'  worse  ev'ry 
minute.  He  rubbed  es  ef  'e  hed  been  in  a  runaway 
an'  drug  a  mile. 

"  Skid  you  better  run  'ith  all  yer  might  over  to 
Jake  Spading's  fer  all  o'  the  arnica,  turpentine  an' 
witch  hazel  'e  hes  on  the  place.  I  feel  all  skewjeed 
an'  tore  loose,"  an'  Pop  was  screwin'  up  'is  w'iskers 
like  a  show  camel.  Mom  jus'  kep'  on  snifflin'. 
"  Skid  while  yer  at  it,  mebby  you  better  go  over  an' 
git  Hi  Stickel  to  set  up  'ith  me  tonight.  Ther's 
no  tellin'  what'll  come  out  o'  this."  Nen  Mom 
rose  up  an'  teetered  into  the  house  to  bed.  I  made 
a  move  es  ef  I  was  goin'  to  streak  out  fer  the  whole 
neighborhood. 

"  Well,  mebby  I  jus'  can  pull  through  the  night 
Skid."  An'  Pop  quit  mos'  of  'is  rubbin',  an'  lookin' 
tired  to'ards  the  house  'e  went  into  the  woodshed  to 
hunt  fer  the  turpentine. 

"  The  Squire  must  have  felt  like  one  of  his  crum- 
blin'  shafts  o'  granite,  Skid.  Was  that  the  way  it 
ended  ?  One  dead  hen,  one  *  kilt '  man  and  your 
mother  abed?  " 

No;  d'rec'ly  'e  come  out  an'  said,  "Skid  crawl 
under  the  barn  an'  get  Cluck  an'  bury  'er.  The 
smell  '11  be  awful  ef  you  don't." 

"  Sure  she's  dead  Pop?  "  I  ast. 

"Dead?  Can  a  yellow  ol'  zebra  like  thet  stand 
a  man  weighin'  two  hunderd  and  fifty  poun's,  who 


8o  Pufferland 

broke  in  the  side  o'  the  barn,  cracked  three  er  four 
ribs,  tore  seven  or  eight  muscles  loose,  an'  still  pre- 
serve 'er  identity?  Dead  Skid?  For  the  Lord's 
sake!  W'y,  no  livin'  hen  on  the  whole  earth  could 
stan'  a  swipe  like  thet  an'  still  be  in  the  Ian'  do  the 
livin'.  She  is  dead  son,  perfec'ly  dead,  an'  hes  no 
doubt  c'menst  to  putere-e-fy  already.  Bury  'er  deep 
an'  throw  the  shovel  in  efter  'er."  Nen  'e  went  into 
the  woodshed  lookin'  fer  more  turpentine. 

I  started  out  'ith  the  shovel  an'  met  Cluck  acomin' 
back  to  do  hatchin'  at  th'  ol'  stan'.  She  looked  purty 
feeble,  kind  o'  three  cornered  an'  was  cluckin'  a 
language  es  said  she  was  perfec'ly  able  to  hatch  aigs 
an'  omelettes  together  ef  let  alone.  Thet's  bout 
all  Clonel. 

Skid  made  a  move  towards  the  candle. 

"  How  did  your  mother  take  it  ?  Did  Cluck 
make  good,  Skid?  " 

No,  but  Pop  did.  'E  got  thet  eighty  cent  ingrain 
on  the  parlow,  the  new  Garlan'  an'  ever  efter  Mom 
got  all  the  chicking  money.  An'  whut  d'you  s'pect 
I  got  out'n  the  perceedin's  Clonel  ?  Well,  Pop  would 
n't  take  the  muskrat  skins  an'  'sides  'e  give  me  a 
whole  half  dollar  jus'  to  preserve  the  fambly  honor, 
which  I'm  sp'ilin'  right  now.  Good  ni'  Clonel, 
happy  dreams."  Puff !  went  the  candle  blaze. 


CHAPTER  IX 
THE  GENTLE  MISS  MORGAN 

ONE  October  night,  dark  and  cheerless,  the  swamp 
fog  coming  in  at  the  close  of  day  had  changed  to  a 
sleepy  drizzle  on  our  tiny  vine-clad  house  under 
the  oaks.  It  was  the  second  trip  I  had  made  to  the 
swamps,  and  in  a  sort  of  voyage  of  discovery  I  had 
asked  Skid  if  there  were  any  panthers  to  be  found 
in  the  wooded  districts  below  the  Crossings.  I  had 
been  planning  all  day  to  tell  a  particularly  vivid  pan- 
ther story.  The  main  theme  was  a  brave  miner 
cornering  a  particularly  bloodthirsty  panther  in  the 
tunnel  of  an  abandoned  mine.  I  had  thought  out 
the  details,  and  trusted  my  constructive  imagination 
when  the  hour  of  trial  should  come.  Assuming  as 
much  guile  as  I  could  I  had  led  out  my  question  as 
a  feeler.  And  this  is  the  way  the  budding  genius 
took  the  tale  out  of  my  soul : 

No,  not  now,  but  we  hed  a  Morgan  colt  onct. 

"  Skid,  for  the  life  of  me  I  don't  see  how  a  pan- 
ther and  a  Morgan  colt  have  anything  in  common. 
What's  a  Morgan  panther  colt  anyway?  " 

The  Morgan  stock  come  from  nowhers,"  he  said. 
"  They  wedge  back,  Pop  said,  to  the  royal  equine  pur- 
ple in  the  obscurity  of  lyin'  stockmen  from  Ohio. 
I  hev  heard  the  Squire  get  off  "  equine  purple  "  more 

81 


82  Pufferland 

'n  onct.  Some  ether  words  was  favorites  'ith  'im. 
"  Corrosivesublimate  "  was  one.  He  saw  thet  on 
a  bottle  o'  bedbug  pizon  down  at  Hi  Stickel's.  Pop 
was  th'  ony  one  'long  the  San'hill  road  es  could 
handle  it. 

The  Morgans  we  hed  was  quick  es  a  panther  on 
their  feet;  never  got  tired  an'  was  allus  prancin'  an' 
sweatin'.  They  was  good  roadsters,  an'  could  run 
furder  an'  longer  an'  do  less  damage  arunnin'  off 
'an  any  ether  kin'  o'  stock  es  ever  took  to  the  San'hill 
road.  Specially  w'en  they  wasn't  broke  right.  Pop 
was  a  nexpert.  He  gentled  'em.  Firs'  to  tie,  nen 
to  lead,  nen  to  stan'  harnessed,  nen  to  follow  behin' 
the  wagon  'ith  the  gears  on. 

Our  firs'  Morgan  was  nearly  blue  blood.  She 
knowed  more  'an  mos'  Dutch  hired  han's  es  aint 
been  dug  out  o'  ferin  countries  very  long.  She  looked 
like  a  fat  little  shoat  but  was  jus'  es  quick  es  a  pan- 
ther, Pop  allus  said,  'ith  'er  feet.  'Er  eyes  stuck 
out  like  a  rabbit's,  an'  she  liked  me  'bout  like  Cluck 
does  Mom. 

She  took  to  edication  fine.  She  was  tame  es  a 
kitten,  'ith  big  eyes  and  'd  follow  me  aroun'  es  ef 
I  w«as  a  chum  of  'ers. 

So  one  May  mornin'  out  come  Pop  'ith  Morgie 
hitched  in  shavs  and  a  naxle  stuck  into  cornplow 
wheels. 

Clonel  you'd  nachurly  think  aseein'  'er  thet  was 
'er  nachural  way  a  doin'  business,  jus'  growed  up  in 
shavs  on  a'  naxle  ith  cornplow  wheels.  Pop  drove 
'er  up  to  the  yard  gate  an'  called  Mom  out  to  see 


The  Gentle  Miss  Morgan  83 

'is  handiwork.  He  was  sweatin',  'is  big  black  hat 
was  stuck  on  the  back  of  'is  head  an'  'e  was  feelin' 
glo-o-rious. 

Mom  walked  round  'im  an'  Morgie  kin'do  squint- 
in'  'er  eyes  an'  lookin'  critical.  Pop  never  did  like 
to  see  'er  look  thet  way.  Nen  'e  followin'  er  'ith 
'is  eyes  sideways  kin'do  mad  but  sayin'  nothin'  et 
firs'.  Mom  I  guess  walked  roun'  twict,  nen  Pop 
snorted  out,  "  Does  this  here  chariot  suit  yer  critical 
spondulix  Missis  Puffer?  " 

"  Abe  thet  colt  does  n't  look  jest  right  to  m'  eyes. 
Sh'  is  n't  broke  enough.  Yer  takin'  chances;  better 
look  out  fer  yourse'f."  No,  Mom  said  "  yerself." 
She  allus  did  talk  proper  enough. 

"  Angelina,"  said  Pop,  tryin'  to  be  polite  'cept  'e 
was  mad  down  in  'is  stomach,  "  ther  air  sevral 
things  you  be  inducted  into  sech  es  housekeeping 
cookin',  grammar,  religion  an'  chicking  fixin's.  But 
breakin'  colts  is  beyon'  yer  concatenation.  Me  an' 
Morgie  is  agoin'  out  ridin'  this  beautiful  May  morn- 
in'."  Pop  sprung  into  the  seat.  "  Better  git  back  to 
yer  waitin'  kiching  work.  Giddap  girlie,"  an'  Pop 
slapped  Morgie  'ith  the  lines.  An'  nen  'e  rode  off. 

Mom  shook  'er  head  solemn,  "  Thet  man  does  beat 
all  Skid." 

I  could  see  right  away  thet  Morgie  was  enjoyin' 
'erself.  'Bout  forty  rod  up  the  San'hill  road  ther's 
a  turn,  an'  you  can't  see  furder.  'E  was  a  goin'  a 
purty  good  gait  wen  we  seen  'im  las'.  "  You  better 
trail  after  him  Skid,"  says  Mom,  "  he  '11  loose  his 
hat  anyway." 


84  Pufferland 

Wen  I  got  'bout  halfway  to  the  corner  I  seen 
Morgie  comin'  back  on  a  sheep  trot  'ith  the  lines 
ahangin'  an'  the  cart  nowhers.  I  tried  to  ketch  'er 
an'  could  n't  an'  follerd  'er  in.  Efter  a  little  here 
come  Pop  in  the  shavs  a  pullin'  the  cart.  'E  was 
n't  sayin'  a  word  an'  'is  hat  was  lost.  Mom  was 
waitin'  'im. 

"  I  see  you  are  back  Abe."  And  Mom  looked 
relieved  wen  she  saw  the  look  on  Pop's  face.  Ther 
was  no  blood  er  tearin'  anywhers.  Pop  snorted  but 
did  n't  say  anything.  Nen  Mom  turned  to  go  in 
the  house  sayin' : 

"  I  suggest  Abe,  that  you  keep  your  colors  together. 
If  you  are  going  into  the  thills  you  had  better  let 
Morgie  ride." 

Es  Pop  hed  hauled  the  cart  back,  steppin'  long 
lively  in  the  shavs,  I  was  ready  to  bust.  Nen  Mom 
went  into  the  house.  I  don't  know  yit  wether  Mom 
was  guyin'  Pop  er  not.  Anyway  I  dodged  into  the 
henhouse  to  hunt  th'  aigs.  I  peeped  out  through 
a  crack  and  seen  Pop  starin'  at  Mom's  apurn  strings 
es  if  Mom  was  a  new  kin'do  Angelina. 

Pop  went  up  to  Morgie  es  was  nibblin'  et  the 
hitchin'  pos'  tan  begun  to  harness  'er  up  agin.  She 
took  it  all  es  ef  she  was  ol'  Bet.  Nen  Pop  got  in 
agin  an'  she  trotted  off  like  a  nol'  horse.  I  come 
out  in  time  jus'  to  look  up  the  road  to  see  'er  gallopin' 
roun'  the  turn.  An'  Pop  was  a  sawin'  on  the  lines. 

I  followed  along  tell  I  come  to  the  corner  an' 
looked  down  the  San'hill  road.  It's  purty  near 
two  miles  clear  there.  Pop  was  nowher.  He  had 


The  Gentle  Miss  Morgan  85 

vanished  like  a  weasel  into  a  hole.  An'  the  very 
firs'  thing  'at  come  into  my  head  was,  "Oh!  Wher 
Is  My  Wanderin'  Boy  t-night?  "  Thet's  one  o'  Pop's 
favorites.  I  hev  heard  'im  singin'  it  'bout  four  mile 
away. 

Drec'ly  'bout  a  mile  way  down  to  the  right  near 
the  swamp  edge  I  saw  the  woodpeckers  an'  black- 
birds aflyin'  es  ef  'bout  scared  to  death.  Nex'  I  saw 
flashin'  an'  dartin',  lightnin'  things  cuttin'  through 
the  thickets  jus'  like  a  cow  in  flytime  runnin'  through 
the  bresh  from  greenheads  es  is  eatin'  'em  up  alive. 
Sothin'  was  shootin'  aroun'  like  a  mink  ketchin'  fish 
under  the  ice. 

Nen  all  was  still.  Sothin'  hed  stopped  an'  I  felt 
sure  it  was  Morgie  an'  mebby  Pop,  s'posin'  'e'd  got 
thet  fur. 

I  cut  through  the  bresh  an'  foun'  Pop  settin'  in 
the  cart  an'  Morgie  flounderin'  in  a  quicksan'  hole 
right  on  the  edge  of  the  slough.  The  wheels  was 
on  the  solid  groun'  an'  the  front  en's  of  the  shavs 
was  in  some  humps  o'  wiregrass  on  th'  ether  side. 
She  was  sunk  halfway  down,  she  could  n't  go  ahead 
er  back  out.  She  was  stuck,  but  she  was  flounderin' 
fit  to  kill  but  helt  up  by  the  shavs.  'Er  fore  feet 
went  jus'  like  a  dog  diggin'  fer  rats.  An'  you  could 
n't  guess  in  a  thousan'  years  whut  Pop  was  adoin'. 
Well  'e  was  settin'  'ith  'is  laigs  crossed  recitin'  potry. 
An'  smokin'  too.  I  guess  'e  knowed  I  was  acomin' 
an'  was  doin'  thet  to  relieve  the  contention.  Them's 
big  words  'e  gits  off  now  an'  then.  Whut  was  'e 
recitin'  ?  W'y  less  see ;  oh  yes ;  "  Br-r-eathes  ther  a 


86  Pufferland 

man  'ith  so-o-ul  so  dead  thet  he  hes  not  to  himsef 
hev  said,  this  is  me  own,  me  nata-av  Ian'." 

Nen  'e  took  'is  pipe  out  an'  swung  it  round  'is 
head  an'  repeated  in  a  big  bullfrog  voice,  "  Me  own, 
me  own,  me  na-a-tav  Ian'."  It  was  fine  all  ri'  and 
even  Morgie  stuck  back  one  ear  alistenin'. 

"  Pop  fer  heavens  sake  what  are  you  doin'  ?  "  I  ast 
thet  in  spite  o'  mysef. 

"  Doin'  Skid?  wy  jus'  tenjoyin'  the  scenery.  Ain't 
it  mos'  goshblammed  hoopin'  fine?  "  Like  a  chump 
I  ast  agin,  "Why  did  n't  you  keep  to  the  San'hill 
road?" 

"Keep  to  the  San'hill  road  Skid?  Well  seein's 
it  you  I'll  tell  you  in  strict  confidence  I  brought  Mor- 
gie down  here  fer  'er  ba-a-th.  Thet's  all."  And 
'e  went  to  smokin'  agin.  'E  got  a  big  mouthful  o' 
smoke  an'  blew  it  at  a  swarm  o'  fightin'  gnats.  '  You 
see  this  is  Chuesday  Skid." 

"Chuesday  Pop?" 

"  Course.  I  jus'  brought  Miss  Morgan  down  fer 
'er  ba-a-th." 

"  Won't  Morgie  sink  Pop?  "  I  was  purty  anxious. 
I  allus  noticed  thet  wen  everybody  else  was  excited, 
specially  me,  wy  nen  Pop  allus  got  quiet  an'  mos'ly 
foolish. 

Morgie  slashed  and  dug  an*  whopped  'roun', — 
sounded  like  water  runnin'  over  a  dam.  She  couldn't 
get  a  ninch  furder  the  shavs  holdin'  'er  out  from 
drowndin'.  She  was  sort  o'  stuck  loose.  I  noticed 
evry  time  Morgie  'd  heva  fit  o'  sheep  swimmin'  there 
in  the  mud,  Pop  watched  'er  mighty  clost  but  never 


The  Gentle  Miss  Morgan  87 

lettin'  on.  I  knowed  he  was  waitin'  fer  sothin'  an' 
I  set  down  tell  the  cloud'd  roll  by.  So  to  be  sayin' 
sothin'  I  says,  "  She  seemed  awful  gen'le  wen  you 
started  off  Pop." 

"  Yes  Skid,  a  goshblamed  gen'ler  'an  wen  she  come 
back  'ith  the  lines  adraggin'.  Wy  she  was  gen'le 
es  the  very  devil  wen  I  started  off  the  firs'  time  but 
fer  the  Lord  Harry!  was  'nt  she  gay  wen  she  come 
back?"  Nen  Pop  kin'do  dropped  is  head  es  if 
thinkin'. 

"  Besides  Skid,  I  aint  a  very  good  roadster." 

"Roadster  Pop?" 

"  Laws-a-mighty  son,  did  n't  you  see  me  come 
under  the  wire  in  them  shafts  the  firs'  time?  I  hed 
no  intention  atall  o'  disconnectin'  thet  firs'  time,  none 
atall.  The  firs'  thing  I  knowed  Miss  Morgan  turned 
'er  head  aroun'  an'  said,  '  Hello !  Squire,  I  teetotally 
forgot  my  tooth  bresh.  Excu-u-se  me-e-e.'  Nen 
she  turned  so  quick  aroun'  thet  a  stump  jumped  four 
foot  under  the  wheel,  the  shaffs  twisted  over  'er  back, 
the  tugs  come  loose,  an'  'thout  sayin'  goodbye,  er 
payin'  'er  taxes  'er  takin'  a  receipt,  Miss  Morgan 
skinned  'ersef  out'n  'er  clothes  an'  sailed  back  home 
liftin'  'er  tail  es  proud  es  Lucifer,  'er  maybe  a  dang- 
site  prouder.  Ther  was  no  harsh  words.  I  did  n't 
feel  very  durn  peert  noways  stuffed  ther  under  the 
cart  'ith  the  seat  an'  the  blankets  smotherin'  me  mos' 
to  death  an'  thet  allfired  stump  punchin'  me  like 
Sullivant  right  in  my  hygeen."  Thet's  Pop's  word 
fer  stomach  mos'  tov  the  time.  He  never  did  know 
zactly  whut  it  was  but  I  heerd  'im  more  an'  onct 


88  Pufferland 

say  "  Anatmy,  fysollogy  an  Hygeen "  was  the 
nobles'  study  o'  mankin'.  I  never  did  know  whut 
'e  meant  tell  I  ast  Mom  about  it.  "  Thet's  the 
name  of  a  high  school  book  Skid;  it  tells  you  'bout 
yer  innards  and  they  say  it's  a  mos'  disgraceful 
study." 

The  more  I  giggled  the  worse  Pop  allus  got. 

"  Skid  yer  mother  was  right  about  keepin'  the 
colors  together,  perfec'ly  right.  Thet's  whut  I  am 
endeavorin'  to  do  now.  It  has  been  an  allfired  swift 
mornin'  fer  keepin'  them  colors  in  jewtaxtowposition 
but  ther  nailed  on  the  same  identicle  mast  so  fur." 

I  kind  o'  went  out  gingerly  to  Morgie's  head  an' 
pulled  some  grass  an'  she  et  it. 

"Seems  to  take  'er  vittals  all  right  yit  Skid."  Nen 
seein'  the  en's  o'  them  shavs  tight  punched  into  thet 
wire  grass  jus'  es  tough  es  haywire  I  knowed  we 
would  hev  to  chop  'em  out  more  'n  likely.  So  I 
went  back  on  solid  groun'  and  ast,  "  Pop  think  I 
better  git  the  ax?  " 

"  Seein's  it's  you  Skid,  wy  not  git  the  shotgun  ?  " 
Thet  kin'do  discouraged  me  an'  I  set  down  an'  Pop 
smoked  like  a  bresh  afire  'at's  wet.  Morgie  wich 
was  purty  quiet  now  slammed  'roun'  onct  more  but 
she  was  helt  fast.  Drec'ly  she  made  a  terrible  dig 
an'  sort  o'  give  up  an'  got  quiet. 

"  Miss  Morgan  is  whut  the  French  'd  say  '  horse 
dew  comback  '  Skid.  Wich  she  can't  'thout  assistans. 
Ef  she  ever  gits  out  o'  here  she'll  hev  a  changed 
heart."  An'  Pop  kep'  on  smokin'. 

'Bout  a  nour  efter  thet  I  saw  Morgie's  ears  drop 


The  Gentle  Miss  Morgan  89 

an'  drec'ly  she  turned  'er  head  back  pitiful  like.  Pop 
stuck  'is  pipe  quick  in  'is  hatban'  an'  flew  down  to 
the  groun'.  "  Miss  Morgan  hes  finished  'er  ba-ath 
Skid.  Grab  a  wheel." 

We  grabbed  the  wheels  an'  tried  to  yank  'em  back, 
Pop  pullin'  on  the  lines.  And  out  come  Morgie 
flounderin'  an'  weak  an'  teetotally  whipped.  She 
stood  there  tremblin'  on  solid  groun'. 

She  certingly  was  the  sloppies',  muddies'  mos* 
drownded  lookin'  horse  es  ever  stood  on  four  laigs. 
Just  es  she  got  hard  on  the  bank  she  gave  'er  tail 
a  fling  an'  Pop  got  the  load  a  ninch  deep  mos'ly 
streaky  an'  ther  was  n't  a  place  on  Pop,  from  'is 
waist  up,  thet  was  n't  clean  covered  up  'ith  swamp 
mud.  He  looked  es  ef  'e'd  been  drug  a  nour  through 
the  swamp.  An'  Pop  did  n't  say  a  word,  not  a 
word.  I  never  could  make  out  w'ether  he  was  so 
stopped  up  'ith  mad  from  the  inside  er  'ith  mud  from 
the  outside,  but  ther's  one  thing  I  was  certain  of, 
he  was  n't  enjoyin'  the  scenery  any  more.  But  I 
was,  some  of  it.  In  all  my  born  days  I  never  hed 
sech  a  bustin'  time  on  the  furside  of  Morgie.  Drec'ly 
I  flew  home  not  darin'  to  look  back. 

I  hid  by  the  chicking  house  tell  I  seen  'em  come 
roun'  the  turn.  Nen  I  yelled,  "  Mom,  oh  Mom  fer 
hevings  sake  hurry!  Here  come  the  colors  of  the 
Puffers  both  ahanging  together.  Hooray!  Hoo- 
ray !  Hoo-oo  ra-a-y !  " 

Here  come  Morgie  lookin'  nearly  like  a  drownded 
rat  in  swamp  mud,  'ith  'er  head  ahangin'  down  'an 
steppin'  slow  like  a  funeral.  An'  Pop  was  slouched 


90  Pufferland 

down  on  the  seat,  the  lines  ahangin'  'tween  'is  laigs 
his  eyes  th'  on'y  clean  place  on  'im.  Evry  thing 
about  'em  was  daubed  and  streaked  an'  splashed 
mebby  jus'  like  they'd  been  playin'  mud  slingin'  'ith 
the  devil  'imse'f. 

Mom,  efter  she  hed  heard  me,  came  runnin'  out 
es  ef  the  barn  was  afire  an'  stood  there  at  the  yard 
gate.  And  es  Morgie  an'  Pop  come  up  they  was 
perfecly  still  neither  one  makin'  a  soun';  they  sort 
o'  stole  in  like  death  er  pestilens.  Morgie  stopped 
right  'fore  Mom  'ithout  Pop  atechin'  the  lines  an' 
Mom  looked  either  like  she  was  agoin'  to  fly  er  sink 
in  the  earth.  Dreck'ly  she  screamed  "  Whee-ee !  "  one 
o'  them  swamp  screams  wen  a  woman  is  ready  to 
die  fer  joy  er  scare.  It  was  fear  all  right  this  time. 
She  run  half  way  to  the  house  but  Pop  set  there  like 
a  mud  ghost  never  sayin'  a  word.  Nen  Mom  come 
back. 

"  Missis  Angelina  Puffer,"  an'  Pop's  voice  was  way 
down  in  his  stomick  like  a  bullfrog's,  "  we  hev  come 
back,  Miss  Morgan  an'  me,  'ith  our  colors  together. 
And — yer  eyes  will  notice  thet  I  am  doin'  the  ridin' 
an'  I  aint  in  the  shaffs." 

Mom  was  tremblin'  like  a  blue  stem  in  the  win' 
but  she  tipped  out  cautious  an'  looked  et  Pop  from 
all  p'ints  o'  the  compass.  And  all  she  said  'fore 
she  got  the  corn  cutter  to  begin  scrapin'  the  mud  off 
was,  "  You  certingly  do  beat  the  devil,  Abe  Puffer." 


CHAPTER  X 
A  PUFFERLAND  JAGGO  LANTERN 

THE  great  swamp  storm  had  swirled  the  seething 
sheets  of  rain  for  two  days  and  nights,  and  with 
lessening  vigor  still  raged  at  noon  of  the  third  day. 
The  time  was  late  October  with  November's  crying 
winds,  its  glooms  and  racing  storms.  The  famous 
spring  roared  rebelliously;  the  jack-oaks,  twisted  and 
distorted  by  swamp  fires  and  broken  by  the  ice  storms 
of  many  winters,  black  with  age  and  stunted  by  the 
lean  earth,  writhed  in  the  winds  and  scattered  their 
tough  leaves  along  the  wasted,  sodden  lands.  These 
oaks  had  lived  through  a  thousand  greater  adversities 
at  their  outpost  camp  of  the  Ridge  and  seemed  like 
sentinels  of  the  Puffer  swamp  strip  and  habitation 
guarding  against  the  world-old  ravages  of  those  long 
tentacles  of  the  treacherous  swamp.  The  huge  wil- 
low over  the  spring,  denuded  of  its  last  leaf,  lashed 
its  lithe  whips  at  the  raging  winds  and  the  ancient 
log  house  itself  seemed  to  glare  down  defiantly  at 
the  hateful  fens.  Some  of  the  shakes  and  a  few 
of  the  clapboards  of  the  old  barn  were  wind  flung 
on  the  reeds  of  the  near-by  slough  and  the  more 
decrepit  shingles  of  the  lesser  buildings  lay  every- 
where along  the  inclosures  like  spent  missiles  of 

91 


92  Pufferland 

battle.  And  hour  after  hour  in  the  gloom  of  the 
days,  in  the  roaring  blackness  of  the  nights,  the  rains 
pounded  the  roof  of  our  summerhouse  and  beat  con- 
tentiously  at  the  window  panes.  Many  fences  were 
leaning  or  flat  on  the  earth,  ancient  apple  trees  were 
snapped  off  and  hundreds  of  new-cut  gullies  tumbled 
their  loads  of  leaves  and  muddy  filth  to  the  insatiable 
maw  of  the  swamp. 

The  Puffer  cows,  miserable  and  benumbed,  crowded 
the  lee  of  the  swamp  grassricks,  bedraggled  fowl 
essayed  the  open  places  in  vain,  the  swine  with  their 
discordant  screams  at  night  under  the  leaking  sheds 
waked  us  to  their  miseries  and  the  old  chimney  of 
the  log  house  moaned  like  a  wounded  monster 
through  all  the  hours. 

When  I  disconsolately  gazed  at  times  out  of  the 
doorway  of  the  main  house  I  saw  the  wood  ducks 
go  whistling  past  like  cannon  balls,  or  down  in  the 
lashing  blue  stems  of  the  swamp  saw  spectral  cranes, 
still  as  stone  guards  breasting  the  eddying  winds. 
The  swamp  storm  with  its  mold,  its  gloom,  its  cold, 
its  agonies  held  all  Pufferland  in  its  clutch. 

Each  hunter  had  talked  himself  silent,  had  smoked 
himself  churlish  and  had  turned  moodily  irrisory 
and  reviled  the  damnable  luck  that  had  brought  him 
there.  We  had  read  every  piece  and  kind  of  book 
the  place  had  except  the  Bible,  and  by  noon  of  the 
third  day  even  the  adroit  ministrations  of  Angelina 
Puffer  failed  to  soothe  our  brutalities. 

About  the  third  hour  of  the  afternoon  of  the  third 
day,  after  the  General  had  tried  to  quarrel  with 


A  Pufferland  Jaggo  Lantern  93 

every  person  on  the  place,  when  I  had  proposed  to 
kill  every  howling  dog  tied  in  the  barn,  each  one 
thinking  things  unutterable  not  only  about  the 
weather  but  about  each  other,  I  left  the  main  building 
and  sought  my  miserable,  fireless  room.  I  was  going 
to  ask  Skid  sharply  why  he  did  not  take  better  care 
of  my  guns  and  wipe  the  mold  off  cleaner  and  oftener, 
even  secretly  was  enjoying  myself  in  anticipating  his 
looks  when  I  should  ask  him  "  Why  in  thunder 
did  n't  you  tell  us  hunters  you  had  such  infernal 
weather  out  here?"  Such  weather  too  in  such  a 
short  vacation  as  we  had  determined  upon. 

When  I  entered  my  dreary  room,  I  started.  Skid 
had  got  together  a  few  pieces  of  sheet  iron,  a  few 
joints  of  rusted  broken  stovepipe,  and  a  roaring  fire 
(with  some  smoke)  had  transformed  the  room. 
Three  candles  were  lit  on  the  table.  My  spirits  rose. 
Skid  lay  bent  like  an  inverted  bow  on  his  swayback 
couch,  reading  his  "  Stories  of  the  Crusades."  The 
book  had  been  torn  in  two  and  the  first  half  was 
missing.  He  did  not  even  look  up,  but  he  knew 
I  was  staring  at  him. 

"Skid,  I'll  be  honswoggled  and  also  noncome- 
bobblydefusticated  and  other  things.  How  did  you 
doit?" 

"  Int'lect  Clonel,"  he  said,  throwing  his  half  book 
under  the  lounge.  "  Got  to  keep  watch  on  it.  It 
might  fall  apart  an'  burn  us  out.  Don't  forget  th' 
incubator." 

The  numerous  bolts  seemed  secure. 

"  Coin'  to  clear  up,"  he  said  laconically.     "  I  see 


94  Pufferland 

the  cranes  air  movin'.  Sure  sign.  Sun'll  set  clear." 
As  it  was  very  dark  at  that  hour  in  the  middle  of 
the  afternoon  I  saw  no  possible  fulfilment  of  such 
prediction.  But  the  opinion  of  anybody  who  could 
make  a  stove  out  of  rusted  iron  and  turn  purgatory 
into  paradise  in  an  hour  was  worthy  of  respect.  I 
threw  myself  on  my  noisy  corn  husk  mattress  without 
a  word  and  soon  was  lost  in  sleep. 

It  was  supper  time  when  I  was  wakened.  As  I 
entered  the  big,  clean,  sweet  smelling  kitchen  with 
its  fragrant  odors,  happy  and  refreshed,  every  hunter 
to  a  man  eyed  me  suspiciously.  The  General  asked 
crossly,  "  What  have  you  got  up  your  sleeve,  Chi- 
cago ? "  Under  ordinary  conditions  he  had  in- 
variably called  me  "  Col.  French." 

"Gentlemen,  the  sun  will  set  clear;  it's  an  hour 
to  sunset  and  the  sun  will  show  up  sure.  To-morrow 
we  will  get  ducks  by  the  wagon  load."  I  looked 
as  mysterious  as  I  could  and  stealing  a  glance  at 
Skid  saw  him  bend  all  the  closer  over  his  plate, 
though  he  did  move  somewhat  restlessly.  There 
were  several  unamiable  grins  around  the  table  and 
the  General  obtrusively  changed  the  subject. 

The  wind  died  down  soon  after;  the  rains  stopped; 
the  fog  began  to  settle  over  everything.  It  seemed 
to  slowly  descend  and  stood  in  a  mighty  blanket  over 
the  immense  levels  about  a  man's  height  above  the 
reeds  and  pasturage  flats.  I  noticed  that  Skid  seemed 
apprehensive  and  more  than  once  gazed  uneasily,  not 
towards  the  sun  but  down  towards  the  neighborhood 
of  the  cranes.  Just  at  the  proper  hour  when  a  proper 


A  Pufferland  Jaggo  Lantern  95 

sun  should  retire  gracefully  behind  the  swamp  rim, 
I  saw  between  the  blanket  of  gray  fog  and  the  bright 
green  rangelands,  a  blue  purse-slit  of  sky,  and  a 
glorious  sun  blazed  through  the  long  avenue  between 
the  waiting  mists  and  water  lands.  Then  the  sun 
dipped  down  as  if  affrighted,  and  the  fog  closed 
gloomily  down. 

When  I  saw  Skid  a  moment  after  he  looked  up 
with  a  relieved  sigh, 

"  Clonel  thet  was  a  purty  clost  shave.  I  f ergot 
to  tell  you  the  cranes  was  movin'  ter-r-ible  slow." 

"  Skid,  the  next  time  in  an  important  affair  of  life 
and  death  like  this  be  sure  to  tell  a  fellow  whether 
the  cranes  are  stepping  lively  or  just  poking  along." 

"  I'm  rememberin'  Clonel,"  and  he  softly  pulled 
the  lobe  of  his  ear. 

"  Skid,"  I  asked  an  hour  afterward,  "  can't  you 
tell  me  some  story  to  cheer  me  up?  Here  it's  been 
three  days  and  nights,  and  I  think  it  has  been  the 
bluest  three  days  and  nights  ever.  Tell  me  some- 
thing about  murders,  wild  cats,  or  shooting  scrapes, 
something  cheerful  like  that,  heh?" 

Instead  of  seeing  Skid  smile,  I  was  astonished  to 
see  him  turn  white  and  rise  up  and  gaze  apprehen- 
sively out  of  the  door  towards  the  swamp.  He  said 
in  hushed  tones  of  fear,  "  It'll  come  tonight,  sure. 
It  allus  does.  It  aint  funny  at  all  an'  none  o'  us 
hereabouts  hev  ever  toF  you  fellows." 

He  sat  down  and  rubbed  his  knees  thoughtfully, 
again  rose  up  after  a  minute  or  so,  and  gazed  with 
an  awestruck  mien  toward  the  fog  enveloped  swamp. 


96  Pufferland 

"  What  do  you  expect  to  see  down  there,  Skid?  " 
I  asked  unsympathetically,  "  bears  or  Indians?  " 

To  my  surprise  Skid  smiled  uneasily,  and  I  saw 
suppressed  excitement  in  every  glance  and  tense  move- 
ment. 

I  aint  feelin'  a  bit  funny  tonight  Clonel.  One 
time  it  hed  been  rainin'  jus'  like  this  fer  three  days 
an'  nights.  It  was  a  reglar  swamp  storm.  Pop 
was  out  lookin'  fer  some  cattle  es  was  missin'  thinkin' 
more'n  likely  they  hed  got  mired  down.  It  cleared 
up  jus'  like  it  did  tonight,  though.  Wen  dark  come 
on  it  was  awful  dark.  It  was  gettin'  late  an'  Pop 
didn't  show  up.  Supper  was  waitin'  col'. 

We  was  settin'  uneasy  'roun'  the  kitching  stove, 
Mom  gettin'  up  an'  allus  lookin'  out  to'ards  the 
swamp.  Dark?  Black  was  no  name.  D'rec'ly 
w'en  ev'rything  was  still  'nough  we  could  hear  the 
cat  abreathin',  we  heard, 

"  Angee-e !  "  It  was  Pop.  Mom  flung  out'n 
'er  chair  like  a  speared  eel. 

I  started  to  follow  'er  an'  she  said  sharp,  "  Stay 
back  Skid."  She  understood  thet  kin'  da  callin' 
lots  better'n  I  did. 

Nen  I  heerd  'em  a  tuggin'  an'  talkin'  in  low 
wispers  an'  Pop  was  carryin'  sothin'.  Drec'ly  they 
come  into  the  kitching  carryin'  a  draggy,  dead 
woman.  She  was  all  covered  'ith  mud.  Pop  an' 
Mom  talked  in  scary  wispers  an'  washed  'er  up  clean 
an'  put  Mom's  nightgown  on  'er.  Nen  they  laid 
'er  on  the  tick  in  the  spare  bed. 

Never  in  my  born  days  Clonel  did  I  ever  see  a 


A  Pufferland  Jaggo  Lantern  97 

woman  like  thet.  She  was  the  mos'  beautiful  woman 
I  ever  seen,  'ith  big  dark  pitiful  eyes.  I  saw  'em, 
wiles  they  was  washin'  'er,  take  off  a  watch  'ith  blue 
w'ite  fire  in  it  from  round  'er  neck.  Pop  kin'  do 
sneaked  it  off  an'  handed  it  to  Mom.  She  shook 
'er  head.  Pop  kept  on  givin'  it  to  'er,  nen  Mom 
took  it  an'  turned  roun'  to  see  where  I  was.  I  never 
let  on. 

Nen  Pop  said  low  "  Fer  expenses  Angie."  I  hev 
never  saw  it  sence.  The  dead  woman's  eyes  was 
open  an'  so-o  pitiful  an'  also  kin'  do  scared.  Pop 
put  some  plow  washers  on  'em  to  keep  'em  shet.  Nen 
kin'  do  fer  the  firs'  time  they  looked  'er  over. 

"Not  a  mark,"  says  Pop. 

"  'Cept  blue  marks  here  on  'er  neck,"  says  Mom. 

"  Fine  lookin'  girl,"  says  Pop.  Nen  Pop  sud- 
denly sort  o'  jumped  back  surprised  and  got  the 
lamp  an'  helt  it  clost.  Nen  'e  took  off  the  washers. 

"  Lordy  God!  Abe  she  looks  like  Skid,"  says 
Mom.  She  was  pale  es  death.  Nen  she  looked 
roun'  scared  to  where  I  was.  I  never  let  on. 

"  You  mean  'er  complexion  is  somat  like  Skid's," 
says  Pop  in  a  loud  voice.  Nen  drec'ly  'e  looked  at 
'er  agin  an'  sneaked  a  look  at  me.  Nen  'e  set  the 
lamp  down  suddenly  an'  went  out  'doors. 

Nen  I  went  up  an'  took  a  look  myself  Clonel.  An' 
them  looks  aint  got  away  from  me  yit. 

Pop  sent  out  runners,  an'  evrybody  fer  ten  miles 
come  thet  night  and  all  decided  to  bury  'er.  Jake 
Spading  an'  Hi  Stickel  dug  the  grave  an'  shoveled 
in  the  dirt.  Wen  Pop  was  sayin'  some  words  over 


98  Pufferland 

'er,  es  'e  was  squire  you  know,  wy  suddenly  a  woman 
screamed,  es  we  all  stood  there  at  the  grave.  I  was 
'bout  ten  years  old  then. 

Nen  they  all  run  away  like  rabbits  into  the  bresh. 
Ony  Pop  an'  me  was  left.  Even  Mom  went  som- 
whers.  'Cause  why?  Right  up  the  willow  way 
from  the  swamp,  nen  to  the  spring  house,  nen  over 
the  house  was  a  Jaggo  lantern  ro-o-o-lin'  an'  ro-o-lin', 
red  es  blood  an'  big  es  a  bushel  basket.  Es  we 
looked  it  wabbled  a  little,  nen  started  fer  us.  D'rec'ly 
it  kin'  do  lost  the  scent  an'  stopped.  Nex'  it  begun 
to  move,  ro-o-o-lin'  bloody  an'  fierce.  It  lifted  a 
little  an'  come  straight  fer  me  an'  Pop. 

I  looked  to  Pop  fer  comfort  an'  de  was  pale  es  a 
snowdrif. 

"  Skid  won't  you  stay  'ith  me?  "  ast  Pop.  Though 
Pop  wasn't  afraid  o'  seven  horned  devils,  ef  'e  was 
pale,  an'  I  felt  like  a  nax  was  comin'  down  on  my 
neck,  I  staid  it  out  fer  Pop. 

The  bloody,  twistin'  thing  got  clost  to  tetchin'  us 
an'  nen  I  jus'  couldn't  run.  I  was  scared  nearly  to 
death.  I  shet  my  eyes.  Wen  I  opened  'em  agin 
there  it  was  nosin'  over  the  grave.  Nex'  it  snapped 
out  an'  I  could  see  by  Pop's  lantern  two  little  smoky 
wings  fly  up  in  the  air. 

Skid's  face  had  a  strange  exaltant  light  in  it  that 
I  could  not  understand.  His  great,  beautiful  eyes 
burned  with  commingling  emotions  of  inquiry,  mys- 
tery and  fear  that  made  the  eerie  tale  very  im- 
pressive. 

"  Has  it  ever  come  back,  Skid?  " 


A  Pufferland  Jaggo  Lantern  99 

No;  but  I  hev  seen  little  ones  ahuntin'  around 
over  the  swamp  twict  sence.  Pop  calls  'em  Jaggo 
Lanterns.  They  air  lost  souls  'e  said  huntin'  fer 
sothin'  es  b'longs  to  'm  down  in  the  worst  places  o' 
the  swamp. 

Here  I  thought  was  a  fine  opportunity  to  throttle 
superstition  and  fear  on  virgin  soil.  I  explained 
the  meaning  and  occurrence  of  that  phosphorescent 
ball  of  light.  While  I  had  risen  in  my  ardor  I 
happened  to  look  toward  the  swamp  and  beheld  down 
by  the  milk  house  a  huge  Will  o'  the  Wisp,  the  most 
formidable  I  had  ever  seen. 

"  Here,  Skid,  follow  me."  I  grasped  an  oar  beside 
the  house  and  he  followed  me  down  to  the  spring. 
His  face  was  white  as  death.  We  came  to  the  fiery 
ball  and  I  swung  my  oar  through  it  and  of  course  it 
vanished. 

"  Smell  the  paddle,  Skid."  He  stuck  his  nose  close 
to  the  blade. 

"  Jee!  w'at  a  nasty  smell,  mos'ly  like  a  corpse." 

We  returned — he  a  wiser  and  more  cheerful  lad, 
but  even  yet  not  wholly  convinced. 

After  we  were  settled  and  almost  ready  for  the 
final  plunge  to  the  swayback  couch  and  to  the  storm 
noises  in  the  corn  husk  mattress  I  asked  him  what 
other  information  had  been  found  about  the  dead 
woman. 

Mom  found  in  her  stocking  a  partly  writ  letter. 
I  don't  exactly  know  whut  was  in  it,  but  sothin'  like 
this  was  meant;  she  was  writin'  to  'er  father,  who 
seemed  to  be  a  jedge,  thankin'  'im  fer  some  money 


ioo  Pufferland 

an'  sayin'  she  was  onto  some  fellows  'at  hed  stole 
'er  baby.  She  said  'fore  a  week  the  law'd  hev  'em 
in  jail.  She  said  on  a  certain  day  it'd  be  either  eight 
er  nine  years  sence  they  stole  it.  Seems  they  was 
allus  promisin'  to  sen'  dit,  nen  gettin'  the  money 
'd  make  some  excuse  er  ether.  Thet's  'bout  all  I 
can  remember. 

"What  became  of  the  watch?  Seems  funny  she 
was  wearing  it  around  her  neck.  And  what  became 
of  the  letter,  the  clothes  and  so  on?" 

I  ast  Mom  last  year  about  thet  watch  with  thet 
blue  flashin'  fire  in  it.  I  hevn't  seen  Mom  so  all 
broke  up  before  in  my  life  an'  she  aint  one  the  easy 
kind  to  break  either.  But  all  she  said,  was,  "  We 
were  awfully  poor  then  Skiddie,  and  your  father  took 
it  down  to  Monticello  to  sell  it  to  pay  expenses. 
And  he  lost  it.  That  is  he  lost  part  of  it."  Nen 
Mom,  who  allus  talked  better  'n  me  an'  Pop,  I  can 
talk  some  things  jus'  like  her,  why  she  got  awfully 
excited  an'  talked  kin'  do  wil'.  I  never  mentioned 
things  sence. 

Mom  es  hones'  tes  the  day's  long  too.  But  ther's 
sothin'  wrong  som'ers.  I'll  fin*  dout  some  day. 
Thet  year  was  the  great  swamp  fires  an'  Pop  did 
n't  hev  money  enough  to  pay  the  taxes.  An'  we 
did  n't  hev  much  t'eat  er  wear. 

"  She  was  beautiful,  was  she?  " 

I  hev  heerd  'bout  angels  an'  sech,  but  I  bet  they'd 
hev  a  hard  ol'  time  comparin'  'ith  'er.  I  can  see 
'er  perfec'ly  yit. 

I  was  in  silent  thought  for  awhile,  thinking  over 


A  Pufferland  Jaggo  Lantern          101 

the  strange  tragedy.  I  looked  up  and  was  aston- 
ished to  see  Skid's  face  aflame  with  passion.  The 
fact  seemed  incredible. 

"  Clonel  I  don't  want  to  say  too  much  just  now, 
but  w'en  I  grow  up  I'm  agoin'  to  hunt  them  men  thet 
strangled  'er  an'  kill  'em."  The  intensity  of  his 
tones  was  entirely  convincing. 

uSh!  Skid.  Don't  harbor  such  thoughts."  I 
arose  and  threw  my  arm  around  his  shoulders.  In- 
stantly my  compassion  melted  his  black  intentions. 
He  was  deeply  moved,  and  as  we  undressed,  all  he 
said  was:  "  You  don't  know  all  about  it  yit  Clonel; 
sometime  I'll  tell  you  more." 


CHAPTER  XI 
A  KITTIECLYSM 

IN  a  warm  dusk,  after  a  hazy  October  day,  Skid 
and  I,  with  our  shotguns  slung  across  our  knees, 
sat  on  the  second  blue  grass  near  the  ditch  source 
of  the  little  Monon.  We  were  after  whippoorwills 
and  were  waiting  for  the  rising  of  the  full  moon. 
We  were  silent  and  I  was  wondering  what  was  in 
the  young  man's  thoughts.  In  the  dusk  I  could  see 
his  face,  and  his  great  eyes  gazing  thoughtfully  across 
the  waste.  To  the  right,  not  far  away,  the  edge 
of  the  reeds  curved  sharply  into  the  land  making  a 
precipitous,  vine-covered  bluff.  Further  on  the  squat 
black  jack-oaks  walked  in  thin  troops  to  the  top  of 
the  Ridge.  The  shallow  ditch  water  at  our  feet  mur- 
mured; farther  down  the  wimpling  water-way  two 
muskrats  played  in  a  dim  pool.  There  was  not 
a  sound  but  the  flow  of  the  water  and  the  soft  splash 
of  the  muskrats;  the  dusk,  sweet,  dreamful,  pulsed 
with  silence. 

The  moon,  now  began  to  edge  out  of  the  water 
rim,  dull  red  in  the  still  impending  haze.  Belated 
waterfowl  swirled  just  overhead  on  storming  wings; 
the  distant  thunder  pumper  started  his  boom;  lone 
killdeers  began  to  circle  in  the  lighting  skies;  the  un- 

102 


A  Kittieclysm  103 

easy  whippoorwills  in  the  slowly  illumined  oaks  hesi- 
tantly commenced  their  bodeful  calls;  the  screech 
owls  in  the  rising  dark  of  the  bluff  uttered  their 
stridulous  notes;  the  barn  owls  far  down  the  Ridge, 
as  the  light  slowly  sifted  in  the  dusky  fastnesses, 
cautiously  called  to  one  another  in  sepulchral  hoots, 
across  the  awakening  leagues;  with  faint  chinkings 
the  alarmed  bats  darted  over  us  in  angling  flights; 
the  crickets  struck  the  first  notes  of  the  insect  choir 
in  the  grass;  then  slowly,  first  one,  then  another, 
nearer,  farther  away  in  echoing  breadth,  awoke  the 
mighty  frog  diapason  of  the  fens;  the  moon  stood 
out  radiant,  glorious,  full-orbed.  It  was  night  on 
a  hundred  square  leagues  of  the  Kankakee  swamp. 

I  looked  at  Skid,  whom  for  a  minute  I  had  for- 
gotten in  the  beauty  and  loneliness  of  the  scene.  His 
face  was  wistful  and  sad.  What  was  he  thinking 
about,  this  wasting  genius  of  the  swamp  ?  Untutored, 
neglected,  virgin  in  mind,  unread  in  all  that  makes 
existence  worth  while,  an  abnormal  sport  of  the  Kan- 
kakee swamp, — what  glimmerings  could  illumine  his 
secret  soul?  What  was  the  meaning  of  it  all  to 
him? 

"  A  penny  for  your  thoughts,  Skid,"  I  broke  in. 

"  Allus  on  nights  like  this  on  the  swamp  makes 
me  feel  things  'at  I  can't  talk  out  er  tell.  Same  way 
es  w'en  I  look  up  at  the  stars  on  a  snappin'  frosty 
night,  er  w'en  I  hear  the  win's  acryin'  nex'  the  roof 
in  a  swamp  storm.  I  jus'  wonder  an'  I  feel  my 
heart  sinkin'  down." 

"  What  would  you  like  to  do,  my  boy?'* 


IO4  Pufferland 

"  I  want  to  get  away.  I  want  to  hear  different 
music,  see  diff'rent  things;  I  want  to  git  the  swamp 
ear-bran'  off'n  me,  I  guess  I  want  to  fly  more'n  any- 
thing else." 

"  I  have  wanted  to  fly  all  my  life,  Skid.  Now 
where'd  you  fly  first?" 

"  Firs'  ?  I  guess  I'd  fly  from  one  en'  do  the 
swamp  to  th'  ether.  I  want  to  see  how  big  a  thing 
it  is.  Nen,  I'd  circle  round  an'  'roun',  higher  an' 
higher  jus'  like  a  squirrel  hawk,  right  above  the 
swamp,  tell, — "  and  he  stopped.  For  the  first  time 
in  my  experience  with  him  he  failed  for  words. 

"  Then  when  you  got  as  high  as  you  wanted,  what 
would  you  do  then,  poor  squirrel  hawk?"  He 
smiled  a  little  foolishly. 

"Wy,  nen  Clonel,  I  think  I'd  give  this  here 
swamp  the  worst  geedanged  cussin'  es  ever  a  livin' 
bein'  got."  He  laughed  with  me,  a  thing  he  seldom 
did. 

"Then  what,  Skid?" 

"  Nen,  finishin',  it  'd  take  'bout  a  day  an'  da  half, 
I'd  go  a  little  higher  an'  sail  away  to  the  en'do' 
the  worP.  Nen  I  guess  bein'  hungry  by  thet  time 
I'd  light  down  in  Egypt  an'  hev  a  snatch  o'  manna. 
Nex'  I'd  circle  up  agin  tell  I  mos'  wore  my  wings 
out  an'  I'd  come  back  an'  givin'  this  gosh  blamed, 
allfired  ol'  swamp  a  nastier  cussin'  es  I  hed  thought 
up,  I'd  sail  off  agin  ahuntin'  the  Holy  Sepulcher  in 
Jerusalem." 

Ah !  his  Crusaders'  book  was  meting  out  its  glories. 
'  Well,  now,  my  lad,  having  sufficiently  damned 


A  Kittieclysm  105 

the  Kankakee  swamp  what  would  you  finally  do  ?  " 
I  asked  with  an  earnestness  that  showed  that  Skid's 
ambitions  were  most  modest.  "  What's  the  matter 
with  this  country,  Skid?  It  is  a  part  of  life;  a  part 
of  the  good  God's  big  world." 

"  To  men  'taint.  It's  on'y  the  manure  pile  of 
Indiany.  Ef  I  hed  my  sayso  about  it  I'd  set  it 
on  en'  an'  kick  holes  in  it.  I  hate  it.  I'll  tell  you 
sometime  wat  I  got  against  it.  Whut  about  them 
whipperwills  we  was  efter?  " 

I  had  forgotten ;  we  were  after  whippoorwills.  A 
few  days  before,  a  hot  contention  had  arisen  among 
the  hunters  as  to  the  identity  of  these  elusive  birds. 
There  have  been  not  a  few  misunderstandings  in 
hunters'  camps  about  the  snipe,  the  pipers,  the  wood- 
cocks and  the  rails. 

"  Yes;  let's  get  a  move  on." 

As  we  rose  and  moved  silently  along  the  bluff  I 
thought :  Who  has  not  had  his  hunter's  blood  aroused 
by  ignorance  blocking  intelligence?  I  recalled  that 
once  in  my  life  I  contended  and  proved  that  a  ground 
mole  never  ate  a  grain  of  corn.  Now  we  would 
show  those  hunters  at  the  Puffer  home  that  a  whip- 
poorwill  and  a  night  hawk  were  entirely  different. 
I  intended  to  talk  learnedly  about  the  goatsucker, 
the  poorwill,  the  night  hawk,  the  churr-bird,  the 
chuck-will's-widow,  the  whippoorwill,  especially 
learnedly  about  this  whippoorwill.  I  had  known 
previously  how  a  discussion  about  this  subject  had 
crossed  friendships,  spoiled  many  a  hunting  vacation 
and  also  had  set  the  ornithologists  by  the  ears.  Al- 


io6  Pufferland 

most  as  much  so  too  as  the  names  of  the  cardinal 
bird  in  its  different  stages  of  development.  Yet 
after  all  this  shrew  bird  of  the  thickets,  of  crepuscular 
deeds,  this  mottled  gray-back  hag  of  the  bodeful 
woods  and  dark  ravines,  this  Jekyll-Hyde  of  the  bird 
world  still  reviles,  eludes  and  charms. 

As  we  were  picking  our  vagrant  way  along  through 
the  gloomy  coverts  a  screechowl  with  the  peculiar 
feathery  sound  of  its  wings  darted  close  to  us;  a  fox 
barked  near  in  a  briar  maze  and  there  were  eerie 
sounds  of  scurrying  small  feet  of  water  rats.  Skid 
stopped  me  and  whispered,  "  Right  up  there  on  that 
sycamore  elbow,  Hink  an'  Hi  an'  me  onct  burnt  out 
a  hornets'  nesV  I  could  not  see  a  thing  in  the  gloom, 
but  heard  him  touch  a  limb  with  his  gun  barrel. 

"  Hunting  hornets  any  fun,  Skid?  " 

He  immediately  sat  down.  I  knew  what  that 
meant. 

Thet  depen's.  Ef  you  air  easy  on  yer  laigs, 
got  a  neagle  eye  an'  air  experienced  it  aint  much  more 
dangerous  'n  playin'  'ith  gunpowder.  Hi  is  mos'ly 
freckles  an'  laigs;  Hink  is  waddly,  fat,  humped  up 
an'  unreasonable  brave.  I'm  purty  good  on  yellow 
jackets;  they  allus  make  ther  nests  in  the  groun'  an' 
generally  'ten'  to  ther  own  business.  An'  bumble- 
bees aint  nachurly  lookin'  fer  trouble,  but  a  hornet 
is  jus'  allus  achin'  fer  a  fight.  Hi  can  run  like  a 
killdeer  an'  yell  like  a  wil'  cat  caught  in  a  steel  trap. 
'E's  special  on  hornets.  Hink's  main  holt  is  bumble 
bees.  He'll  squat  over  a  nes'  like  Casibianky  on  the 
burnin'  deck  and  'ith  a  paddle  'e'll  lay  out  a  whole 


A  Kittieclysm  (107 

nes'.  Hi  an'  me  stand  off  a  little  ways  ready  to 
scream  an'  sail,  specially  wen  'e  misses  one  'ith  its 
laigs  ahangin'.  Wen  a  bumble  bee  sails  out  slow 
'ith  its  laigs  ahangin'  we  don't  dror  pictures  er  make 
speeches;  we  sail.  But  Hink  jukin'  'is  head  down 
'tween  'is  humps  'ill  keep  spattin'  an'  spattin'  like  a 
reglar  Richard  cur  de  line. 

Ever  stung  by  a  hefty  three  year  oP  bumblebee 
Clonel?  Remember  how  it  hurts?  'Bout  like  a 
red  hot  darnin'  needle.  Hi  said  'e  was  stung  twict 
by  hornets  in  'is  life.  The  firs'  time  it  hurt  so  he 
turned  freckly;  the  secon'  time  'is  head  turned  fiery 
red.  Hink  allus  said  Hi  learnt  to  'ave  long  laigs 
fightin'  hornets.  Well,  a  hornet  can  fly  'bout  as  fas' 
es  a  real  limber  boy  can  run. 

Hi  says  Hink  got  'is  humps  by  missin'.  A  bumble 
bee  allus  aims  fer  a  boy's  left  eye.  Ef  'e  misses  thet 
'e  is  reasonable  satisfied  with  a  jab  o'  hot  pizen  in  'is 
ear. 

Wen  Hink  missed  Vd  juke  'is  head  down  in  'is 
shoulders  like  a  mud  turtle.  Pop  said  onct  thet  a 
form  o'  livin'  death  was  hevin'  'bout  three  nifty 
bumble  bees  up  yer  pants'  laigs  kind  o'  scattered  fore 
an'  daft.  I  ast  'im  'bout  three  er  four  hornets  doin' 
business  thet  way.  'E  shook  'is  head,  sayin'  solemn, 
"  Skid,  nobody  knows,  es  no  one  ever  was  left  alive 
to  tell  the  tale." 

The  way  we  fight  'em  is  to  wrap  a  gunny  sack 
wet  'ith  coal  oil  tied  on  a  long  pole.  Longer  the 
better.  Mile  long  is  'bout  right.  Nen  steal  up  'ith 
it  blazin'.  I  took  my  turn  on  this  nes'.  Hink 


io8  Pufferland 

an'  Hi  was  guards,  keepin'  watch  fer  incomin' 
vis'tors. 

He  stopped. 

"Who  were  the  guards  did  you  say,  Skid?" 

Thet's  the  business  o'  Hink  an'  Hi.  Hi  from 
long  experience  has  an  eye  like  a  hen  hawk.  Hi  can 
spot  a  bal'  faced  hornet,  mebby  a  hundred  yards; 
s'pect  less.  I  was  burnin'  up  the  nes'  'ithout  a  crimp 
in  the  perceedin'  wen  all  to  onct  Hi  yelled  like  a 
Nindian,  "  Ther's  a  nes'  behin'  you,  Skid,  look  out, 
skootl  "  I  didn't  ast  any  questions  fer  es  I  looked 
'round  I  saw  a  bal'  faced  hornet  'bout  as  big  es  a 
peewee  follered  by  a  reserve  stringin'  behin'  long  es 
a  rake  handle  makin'  fer  me.  They  seemed  jus' 
achin'  fer  Puffer  vittals. 

"  Take  fer  the  slough  Skid,"  screamed  Hink. 
'Thout  thinkin'  I  did.  I  leapt  like  a  tiger  on  a 
bufflo  an'  lit  in  a  mud  hole  at  the  edge  o'  the  slough. 
Both  my  head  an'  feet  lit  to  onct  an'  mos'  all  o' 
me  went  under.  But  not  quite  all.  There  was  a 
landin'  place  fer  at  leas'  'leven  hornets  'fore  I  could 
tuck  mysef  clean  under,  prayin'  fer  death. 

"Did  they  sting  you,  Skid?"  I  asked  as  sympa- 
thetically as  I  could. 

Some  people  might  call  it  stingin'  Clonel;  ethers 
might  call  it  stump  blastin',  er  sword  fish  fightin'; 
mebby  more  like  throw'n'  a  red  hot  harrow  at  a 
man.  Efter  holdin'  my  breath  mebby  a  minute, 
mebby  a  nour,  I  come  out  to  die  on  dry  Ian'.  Ef 
I  hev  to  be  killed  I  want  allus  to  die  on  dry 
Ian'. 


A  Kittieclysm  109 

"  What  did  Hi  and  Hink  say  when  you  came  out 
to  die?  They  were  sorry  of  course." 

Sorry;  yes,  but  they  wasn't  sheddin'  tears  'bout 
it  though.  You  see  I  wasn't  a  fine  lookin'  article  o' 
livin'  beauty  w'en  I  come  out  'ith  a  big  part  o'  the 
Kankakee  swamp  clingin'  to  me  lovin'ly.  Hi  was 
rollin'  over  an'  expirin'  tryin'  to  get  more  win'  in 
'is  system.  Yes,  Hi  was  jus'  rollin'  in  livin'  sorror. 

"And  Hink?" 

Well,  es  I  was  sailin'  for  the  slough  Hink  was 
so  excited  'e  didn't  know  'e  was  in  the  line  o'  battle. 
Some  o'  the  hornets  seein'  there  was  no  hope  of  ar- 
rivin'  at  the  killin'  branched  off  fer  Hink.  O'  course 
Hink  being  experienced,  didn't  wait  to  argue  er  ast 
questions  but  sailed.  I  listened  an'  felt  purty  sure 
I  could  hear  the  bresh  acrackin'  down  on  the  ether 
side  o'  the  san'ridge.  They  run  'im  clean  home  an' 
drove  'im  still  flyin'  under  the  smokehouse.  Hi 
tol'  me  efterwards  'e  didn't  come  out  till  efter  dark. 
He  said  Hink  outrun  'em  all  right  fer  thet  three 
mile  fer  'bout  on'y  four  rod. 

Pop  ast  about  it.  Efter  laughin'  'bout  a  nour 
'e  said  it  was  mighty  lucky  I  wasn't  stung  in  some 
vital  part  o'  my  hygeen.  I  hev  thought  ef  a  fellow 
could  been  at  the  siege  of  Acre  in  them  crusadin' 
times  'ith  Indiany  hornets !  Wen  the  Christians 
was  killin'  the  heathens  fer  the  glory  of  God  an'  all 
thet,  an'  havin'  ther  batterin'  rams  burnt  dozens  o' 
times  'ith  Greek  fire  from  the  walls, — ef  a  feller 
could  Ve  hed  just  seven  hornets'  nests  an'  flung  'em 
over  the  walls, — whee-ee !  Talk  about  runnin' ! 


1 10  Pufferland 

We  rose  and,  still  talking,  slowly  took  our  way 
home.  As  we  went  Skid  stopped  on  the  top  of  the 
Ridge  an'  said,  "  Right  here  is  the  place  where  a 
kittieclysm  happened." 

"A  kittieclysm,  what  on  earth  is  that?  A  new- 
fangled bug?  " 

I'll  tell  you.  Onct  Hi,  Hink  an'  me  was  out 
huntin'  hornets  an'  not  findin'  any  we  come  acrost 
this  spot  an'  saw  lots  o'  doodle  bug  funnels.  Anether 
name  is  ant  lion.  So  we  begun  to  call  out  doodle 
bugs.  Ther's  reglar  poetry  goin'  'ith  the  callin'. 
Ther's  nineteen  verses  an'  all  is  sothin'  like  this;  you 
set  down  by  the  san'  funnel,  flick  a  little  san'  in  the 
funnel,  makin'  the  doodle  think  a  nant  hes  fell  in,  nen 
recitin', 

"  Oh  doodly,  doodle  oh !  doodly  doo ; 
Here's  a  dinner,  a  dinner  fer  you-oo-oo." 

Nen  the  doodle  sleepin'  at  the  bottom  o'  the  funnel 
wakes  up  quick,  flirts  the  san'  off  a  little  an'  sticks 
'is  two  long  sucker  claws  out  an'  listens.  He's 
feelin'  fer  'is  dinner.  It's  fun  a  foolin'  'em.  We 
put  in  a  nant.  Less  th'  ant  is  awful  big  the  fracas 
is  over  'n  no  time.  Hi  put  in  a  hard  shelled  pinchin' 
bug.  O'  course  it  tried  to  run  up  the  slippin'  sides 
o'  san',  fell  back,  tried  agin,  fell  back  an'  the  doodle 
throwed  up  earthquakes  o'  san'  an'  'is  suckers  aroun' 
like  a  devil  fish  tryin'  to  get  hoi'.  'E  was  no  good 
so  we  took  'im  out. 

Hi  hed  a  yellow  jacket  'ith  its  wings  tore  off,  in  a 


A  Kittieclysm  in 

bottle,  'e  wanted  to  put  in  fer  a  fracas,  but  Hink 
hunted  an'  foun'  a  big  hunter  ant  es  mebby  hed  killed 
thousan's  an'  thousan's  o'  little  ants.  So  we  put  the 
hunter  ant  in  a  fresh  funnel.  The  ant  the  first 
thing  was  'bout  scared  to  death.  A  san'  funnel  is 
a  nant's  nachural  enemy,  like  a  hog  is  of  a  rat- 
tlesnake. 

It  was  a  big  ant  an'  a  little  doodle,  'bout  half  size. 
Nen  the  tumult  begun.  I  learnt  "  tumult "  from 
the  preacher.  Umbrellar  earthquakes  o'  san'; 

heavins  o'  san';  whirlin'  storms  o'  san'.     The  ant 

.  * 

raved  up  the  slippery  sides  and  o'  course  tumbled 

back.  An'  them  swishin'  blood  suckers,  blin'  an' 
swingin',  feelin',  tryin'  to  grab, — w'y,  it  was  a  battle 
fer  anybody's  w'iskers  es  Pop'd  say. 

.  D'rec'ly  the  little  san'  louse  caught  a  hoi'  but  the 
ant  was  so  strong  'e  jerked  the  doodle  out  plain. 
The  doodle  was  scared  mos'  to  death  'cause  'e  on'y 
fights  'ith  'is  body  hid,  'ith  the  suckin'  claws  out. 
'E  le'  go  an'  backed  quick  in  the  san'.  But  the  little 
codger  by  mistake  backed  in  up  on  the  side  o'  the 
tunnel  wich  was  half  full  by  this  time.  Nen  'e 
began  to  flick  up  san'  agen  an'  filled  up  'is  hole,  so 
the  ant  climbed  out. 

Nen  findin'  the  bigges'  hole  of  all  Hi  put  in  the 
yellow  jacket.  It  was  the  firs'  time  in  the  hist'ry 
o'  the  worl'  thet  a  yellow  jacket  was  in  a  doodle  san' 
crater.  The  yellow  jacket  tried  to  crawl  up  the 
sides  and  o'  course  tumbled  back.  Nen  earthquakes. 
The  big  doodle  stopped  onct  or  twict  cause  the 
yellow  jacket  could  hum  some.  Sech  a  hummin' 


ii2  Pufferland 

thing  in  a  san'  louse's  hole  hed  never  happened 
before  to  the  oldes'  inhabitant  o'  the  doodle  bug 
worl'. 

Doodle  bugs,  like  humin  bein's,  air  mos'  tafraid 
o'  things  they  don't  know  about  an'  can't  understan'. 
My  horse-thief  preacher  said  onct,  the  Unknown  is 
whut  evrybody  is  most  afraid  of  an'  mos'  worships. 
So  the  doodle  bug,  though  s'prised,  got  to  workin' 
a  little  harder  an'  harder,  nen  raved  'cause  'e  fer 
a  million  years  was  born  hungry  an'  was  educated 
fer  a  million  years  'at  anything  'at  come  to  'is  funnel 
trap  was  a  special  providence  in  vittals.  It  was 
Darwinicks  fer  sure. 

O'  course  'is  funnel  is  the  whole  worl'  to  'im  and 
'e  hes  on'y  glimmerin's  of  anything  outside.  Jus' 
like  some  o'  the  swamp  people,  'cept  their  funnel  is 
bigger  an'  ther  glimmerin's  wider.  I  never  saw  a 
fight  fer  life  like  thet.  I  jus'  imagined  I  was  thet 
poor  little  yellow  jacket  'ith  broken  arms  bein' 
drownded  'ith  whirlwin's  o'  san'.  An'  all  the  time 
big  blin'  sickles  hot  es  fire  swingin'  'roun'  reckless 
efter  me.  An'  all  the  time  the  earth  slippin',  slippin' 
out'n  under  my  feet. 

D'rec'ly,  starvin'  hungry,  but  scared  mos'  to  death 
at  the  hummin'  an'  mebby  the  awful  big  body  o' 
the  yellow  jacket,  'e  accidentally  caught  a  double  holt 
right  aroun'  the  yellow  jacket's  neck.  I  jus'  could 
hear  the  little  sick  boy  'ith  broken  arms  scream  w'en 
them  burnin'  sickles  begun  to  sink  in.  But  the  jacket 
jus'  curled  down  an'  under  an'  shot  'is  pizen  slinger 
in  the  doodle's  nasty  stomick.  Nen  ef  I  had  been 


A  Kittieclysm  113 

fine  enough  in  hearin'  mebby  I  could  have  heard  the 
doodle  yell. 

Hi  jumped  up  an'  yelled:  Hink  shouted  out  like  a 
Fourth  o'  July  speaker, 

"  Hey !  doodly  doodly  doodle  do  ; 

Ther  ain't  any  dinner,  any  dinner  fer  you-oo-oo, 
goshding  ye ! " 

an'  I  was  so  glad  I  felt  jus'  like  bawlin'. 

The  doodle  bug  jus'  keeled  over  dead,  but  a  doodle 
in  the  histry  o'  mankin'  never  le'  go  w'en  it  gits  a 
good  holt.  An'  'e  helt  on  till  the  yellow  jacket  died. 
Nen  we  piled  the  san'  over  'em  an'  buried  'em 
f'rever. 

I  could  not  laugh  at  the  sad  little  tale.  When 
we  got  to  our  room  I  asked  Skid  where  the  kittieclysm 
came  in. 

'Mos'  fergot  thet.  Mr.  Reverent  Lemuel  Mason, 
he's  the  horse-thief  preacher  'at  taught  me  to  read 
an'  spell  a  little,  said  wen  I  told  'im  about  it,  "  Skid 
sometimes  the  ocean  waters  way  down  below  on  the 
bottom  finds  a  crack  and  the  water  sinks  down  tell 
it  comes  to  the  innard  fire.  Nen  it's  two  irresistibel 
bodies  a  fightin'.  W'en  they  comes  together  nature 
hits  'ersef  in  the  win'.  Nen  the  devil's  to  pay. 
Mebby  the  mountains  air  'tendin'  to  ther  own  busi- 
ness an'  not  savin'  a  word.  But  the  whirlin'  devils 
o'  water  an'  fire  tumble,  an'  twist,  an'  roar,  an' 
hiss  like  fightin'  lions.  Nen  they  come  jumpin'  out 
o'  the  mountain  tops  like  ten  million  meltin'  cats. 


H4  Pufferland 

Mebby  thousands  is  kilt."  Nen  'e  said  thet  was  a 
cataclysm.  I  told  'im  I  did  n't  see  wher  the  cata- 
clysm come  in  'ith  a  little  doodle  bug  an'  a  sp'ilt 
yellow  jacket.  "  Oh  in  thet  case  you  might  call  it 
a  kittieclysm."  An'  d'e  looked  solemn  off  at  a  cloud 
jus'  like  'e  was  thinkin'  sad  'bout  sothin'. 


CHAPTER  XII 
THE  EYES  OF  A  FRIEND 

As  we  were  about  ready  for  bed  Skid  went  to  a 
secret  spot  under  a  shelf  and  handed  me  a  flat  pack- 
age, dirty  and  soiled. 

This  hes  been  on  my  min'  fer  a  long  w'ile  Clonel ; 
mebby  you  can  help  me  out  'ith  it.  I  found  it  efter 
the  horse-thief  preacher  lef.  Guess  'e  dropped  it 
an'  I  can't  read  writin'  very  well  an'  'sides  I  never 
opened  it.  It's  'dressed  to  Robert  Greyson.  S'pose 
we  ought  to  read  it? 

"Who  else  knows  anything  about  this,  Skid?" 

Nobody.  I  jus'  kept  it  all  to  myself.  I  kin'  do 
s'pect  it's  got  bad  news  in  it.  Don't  know  zactly  w'y, 
but  mebby.  Greyson  thet's  jus'  the  same  name  es 
the  teacher  down  et  the  Crossins.  I  ought  to  tell 
you  'bout  thet.  Las'  winter  I  went  onct  to  a  spellin' 
school.  Mos'  evrybody  was  sayin'  "  Excuse  me 
please  "  an'  I  kin'  do  got  mad  an'  picks  up  my  head 
an'  strung  'long  'ith  the  rest  wen  I  was  chosen.  I 
wanted  to  see  ef  I  was  any  good  efter  thet  teachin' 
I  hed  been  doing  'ith  the  preacher.  The  schoolmam 
is  a  stunner  an'  bein'  sor'to  bashful  I  kep'  my  shoul- 
der 'er  way.  Efter  aw'ile  I  set  down  the  bigges' 
speller  right  before  me. 

"5 


u6  Pufferland 

Ef  I  remember  right  I  hed  'em  all  downed  'cept 
one,  nen  she  give  me  out  thet  condemn  word,  cata- 
clysm. I  somehow  couldn't  get  thet  word.  Never 
spelt  such  a  dinged  bunch  o'  letters.  I  was  kind  o' 
keepin'  my  shoulders  'er  way,  but  fergettin'  mysef 
I  flared  roun'  sayin',  "  How  did  you  say  thet  all- 
fired  bunch  o'  letters,  mam?  "  Well  first  she  stared 
at  me.  Nen  her  eyes  got  big,  she  turned  white  es 
snow  an'  nex'  thing  she  jus'  sunk  slow  down  in  a 
chair  daft  like.  She  was  sick.  It  broke  up  the 
spellin',  an'  mos'  everybody  said  they  was  sorry  she 
took  sick  so  sudden. 

Twict  efter  thet  she  came  to  our  house,  but  I  allus 
cleared  out.  She  ast  so  many  particular  questions 
o'  Mom  thet  she  got  huffy.  I  guess  they  hed  some 
words. 

"Who  got  huffy,  Skid?" 

Wy»  Mom.  One  night  I  heard  Mom  say  to 
Pop,  "  Thet  hussy  is  pokin'  'er  nose  entirely  too  free 
in  other  people's  sour  dough  again." 

"  Oh!  puddin' !  "  says  Pop,  rollin'  over  to  sleep. 

"  She  ast  entirely  too  much  about  that  horse-thief 
preacher,  Abe.  She  even  got  to  pokin'  in  who  you 
were  and  who  I  was  and  all  that.  What  put  me  the 
worst  against  her  was  her  sayin',  '  Excuse  me,  Mrs. 
Puffer,  if  I  seem  interested,  but  your  son  has  the  eyes 
of  a  friend  that  I  know.  She  was  a  dear  friend  of 
our  family.  It  seems  so  strange  that  they,  your  son 
and  this  friend,  could  look  so  much  alike  and  not 
be  connected  in  any  way.'  Abe,  air  you  asleep, 
Abe?" 


The  Eyes  of  a  Friend  117 

"Whut's  thet  Angle?"  Pop  ast,  tryin'  to  wake 
up  a  little. 

"  I  say  that  teacher  down  at  the  Crossins  smells 
a  mouse  Abe." 

"Whut's  thet  you're  gettin'  off?  "  and  Pop  snorted 
'imse'f  awake. 

"  I  say  that  teacher  down  at  the  Crossins  smells 
a  rat  Abe." 

"  Oh,  gol  dang  yer  rat  Angelina,"  and  Pop 
whirled  over. 

"  Yes  she  doo  Abe,"  said  Mom,  holdin'  on  like 
a  bulldog. 

"Oh  puddinM  puddin'!  puddin'!"  an'  Pop 
whirled  aroun'  in  the  bed  like  a  squirmin'  eel.  Wen 
Pop  says  "  puddin'  "  like  thet  it  's  mighty  close  to 
the  shettin'  up  point  fer  all  concerned  in  our  fambly. 
Mom,  feelin'  as  ef  she  hed  warned  the  fort  o'  moc- 
casin tracks  bein'  seen,  es  Pop  says,  dozed  off  into 
sleep. 

The  letter  had  been  posted  on  a  train  mail  car,  the 
date  could  not  be  deciphered,  and  of  course  the  en- 
velope had  only  the  postmark  of  the  railroad.  The 
sheets  were  undated  and  had  no  address  nor  signa- 
ture. The  handwriting  was  virile.  The  letter  ap- 
parently unfinished,  or  perhaps  a  sheet  was  missing. 

We  spread  out  the  old  letter  and  easily  made  it 
out.  It  ran: 

"  I  send  this  to  your  advertised  address  but  I 
ought  to  hand  your  hiding  place  over  to  the 


n8  Pufferland 

police.  I  will  give  you  one  more  chance.  I 
will  never  send  you  another  cent.  If  you  ask 
even  and  I  can  place  you  I  will  do  my  best  to 
get  you  into  the  hands  of  the  law.  I  doubt  if 
Robert  Greyson  gets  this;  you  have  too  many 
emissaries  and  dark  friends.  To  me  it  looks 
like  a  trick.  Claire  told  me  that  she  heard  you 
were  in  prison  but  that  the  preacher  was  out 
yet.  He  will  keep  you  company  before  he 
dies. 

I  have  got  you  out  of  your  last  scrape. 
Neither  do  I  fear  you  or  what  you  say  about 
protecting  my  good  name.  There's  a  limit  to 
endurance.  This  is  final.  I  believe  you  and 
Charles  Mason  stole' her  baby;  used  her  fear 
and  love  to  extort  money  from  her  and  through 
her  from  me.  You  have  bled  me  for  the  last 
dollar  now. 

Where  is  Claire  now?  You  say  you  know 
nothing  about  her  or  her  baby.  You  lie;  you 
know  you  lie;  you  know  that  I  know  you  lie. 
Why  should  her  husband  steal  her  baby  ?  The 
very  last  time  Claire  was  home  she  whispered 
to  me  just  as  she  left  at  the  gate,  "  I  be- 
lieve Bob  stole  my  baby."  She  thought  it  was 
Bob,  consumed  with  jealousy  and  a  libertine's 
hate,  with  his  half  cousin  did  it.  To  think  an 
unknown,  a  stranger  to  me  should  presume  to 
marry  my  beloved  step-daughter.  It  makes  my 
blood  boil  to  think  of  it. 

I  think  she  married  Mason  clandestinely  be- 


The  Eyes  of  a  Friend  119 

cause  she  so  feared  you.     That  was  her  first  and 
only  wrong  since  I  adopted  her. 

I  do  not  believe  my  stepson  Lem  Greyson 
had  anything  to  do  with  the  abduction  of  her 
baby.  He's  a  thief,  but  he  has  a  soul.  You 
have  not.  I  loved  Claire  as  if  she  were  my  own 
flesh  and  blood.  And  to  think  you,  you,  you 
hateful  demon  would  do  the  things  I  think  you 
have  done.  I  will  tell  you  something  more  and 
you  do  not  want  to  forget  it.  If  I  can  lay 
hold  of- 

That  was  all.  One  sheet,  perhaps  more,  had  been 
lost.  I  looked  at  Skid.  His  eyes  were  luminous, 
staring,  his  hands  twitched  and  waves  of  white  and 
pink  shot  alternately  through  his  face.  He  was 
terribly  aroused. 

"What  shell  we  do  Clonel?"  he  asked  in  almost 
breathless  excitement. 

"  It's  a  pretty  hard  case  to  make  out  clearly,  Skid, 
but  this  is  my  guess :  The  writer  is  a  forceful  middle- 
aged  man  holding  a  high  position  and  I  think  his 
name  is  Greyson.  He  married  twice  and  had  two 
stepsons,  one  was  Robert  Greyson  and  probably  the 
other  was  Lem.  I  think  this  Robert  Greyson  was 
a  jailbird  and  must  have  been  in  many  sorry  scrapes. 
He  wants  money  from  the  writer,  who  refuses  to 
give  it  and  threatens  him  with  punishment  if  he  ever 
gets  in  touch  with  him  again. 

"  Claire  was  an  adopted  daughter  whom  the  writer 
loved  as  his  own  flesh  and  blood.  He  furnished  her 


I2O  Pufferland 

with  much  money  for  years,  trying  to  help  her  with 
detectives  to  find  her  baby  who  was  abducted.  The 
writer  thinks  Claire's  husband  and  Robert  Greyson 
are  responsible  for  its  disappearance.  The  preacher 
dropped  this  about  a  year  and  a  half  since.  May 
be  he  was  the  half  cousin,  looks  that  way.  He  was 
trying  to  extort  money  from  the  writer,  who  suspi- 
cions that  the  letter  will  go  wrong.  The  preacher 
got  it  anyway,  and  he  is  the  wrong  man.  One  can't 
tell  for  certain  though  unless  Robert  Greyson  could 
preach  too.  Lemuel  Mason  must  be  Robert  Grey- 
son's  half  cousin,  or  half  brother. 

"  Why,  it's  a  perfect  foundation  for  a  melodrama, 
Skid?" 

"Wat's  a  mellerdramo  Clonel?"  I  was  still 
astonished  at  the  intensity  Skid  manifested. 

"  It's  something  very  unreal  that's  played  on  a 
stage  so  realistically  that  one  forgets  it's  wholly  im- 
possible." I  went  over  the  letter  again  and  was 
much  puzzled.  Suddenly  I  looked  up  and  asked, 
"  What  do  you  think  about  the  whole  thing, 
Skid?" 

"  I'm  mixed.  I'm  kin'  do  'fraid  to  look  furder. 
Sh!  listen  to  thet."  He  was  almost  panting.  I 
heard  only  a  killdeer's  cry,  a  lone  bird  calling  wail- 
ingly  from  the  night  skies.  I  had  known  that  curious 
way  of  this  bird  for  years.  Round  and  round  its 
sharp  cry  of  grief  came  eerily  down  as  it  circled  in 
its  companionless  flight.  I  was  amazed  at  the  fanatic 
light  of  hate  I  saw  in  Skid's  face.  I  could  scarcely 
believe  my  eyes.  He  held  his  breath,  tensely  erect 


The  Eyes  of  a  Friend  121 

as  the  cry  came  clearer.  As  it  passed  onward  he 
breathed  gustily. 

"  Why,  Skid,  that's  only  a  killdeer.  Are  you  su- 
perstitious? " 

"Same  ol'  cry;  same  oF  wailin';  same  oF  callin' 
es  I  allus  heerd  in  my  dreamin'.  It  would  n't 
ascreamed  like  thet  ef  it  did  n't  know  we  was  readin' 
this  letter  Clonel." 

The  unmeaning  talk  made  me  doubt  his  sanity. 
I  asked  bluntly,  "  Are  you  a  little  off  in  the  upper 
story  to-night,  Skid?  "  He  smiled  sheepishly.  "  I'm 
rememberin'  them  Jaggo  Lanterns  Clonel.  Quotin' 
Pop,  '  To  beer  er  not  to  beer  thet  is  the  question.' 
In  the  mornin'  I'm  agoin'  to  see  the  teacher  down 
at  the  Crossins  Clonel,  ef  you  hain't  no  objection." 

"  I  don't  catch  on,  Skid." 

"  I'm  agoin'  to  take  this  letter  an'  ast  'er  some 
questions.  An'  wy?  'Cause  she  says  m'  eyes  air 
jus'  like  th'  eyes  of  a  frien'.  She  neen  to  think  I 
aint  a  s'pectin'  things  neither."  I  stared  at  him. 

He  continued  excitedly,  "  Thet  time  at  the  spellin' 
school  wen  she  got  sick  I  came  home  wonderin'.  My 
blamed  eyes  seem  to  be  makin'  a  sight  o'  fuss  roun' 
here.  I'm  goin'  to  ast  'er  about  thet  frien',  show  'er 
the  letter  an'  see  whut  she  knows.  Me  an'  thet 
killdeer  '11  git  in  touch  yit." 

"  Oh,  geedang  your  killdeer,  Skid,  but  what — er — 
what  does  she  look  like?  " 

"  Es  Hi  Spading  said,  *  Teacher  is  peaches,  cream 
an'  sunshine  'ith  piles  o'  sugar.'  She  don't  belong 
to  the  swamp  any  more'n  a  neagle  does.  A  fellow 


122  Pufferland 

jus'  nachurly  sneaks  a  look  at  'er  w'en  she  aint  alook- 
in'.  She's  one  o'  them  kind  Pop  used  to  say  the 
pawpaw  bushes  'd  bow  to  'er  es  she  come  on  an' 
twist  the  bark  off  wen  she  hed  passed  tryin'  to  get 
anether  squint  at  'er.  But  Pop  never  said  thet  about 
her,  though." 

"What  is  her  name,  Skid?" 

" '  Miss  Alice  Greyson,  Indianapolis.'  Thet  is 
what  I  saw  in  one  o'  her  books." 

"How  many  terms  did  you  attend,  my  boy?" 

"  I  didn't  go  to  her.  Efter  thet  spellin'  school 
shake  up  Pop  an'  Mom  both  kicked  an'  I  couldn't 
make  out  why." 

"  Where  did  you  see  any  of  her  books,  Skid?  " 

"  One  Sunday  w'en  Hi  an'  Hink  an'  me  was  out 
huntin'  pawpaws  we  sneaked  in  the  schoolhouse ;  any- 
body can  get  in  the  windows." 

"  Notice  anything  peculiar?  " 

"  Should  say !  She's  got  pictures  out  o'  books  an' 
papers,  an'  flowers  agrowin'  in  pots  an'  it  aint  the 
same  oF  place,  any  more.  She  nearly  got  the  swamp 
earmarks  off'n  the  place.  W'en  she  foun'  Hi  an' 
Hink  was  chums  o'  mine  she  ast  them  lots  o'  ques- 
tions. They  went  to  'er,  but  es  Pop  said  they  hev 
hide-boun'  int'lec's,  they  never  learnt  nothin'." 

"Why  is  she  so  interested  in  you,  Skid?  She  has 
never  seen  you  but  once,  has  she?  " 

"  Jus'  onct." 

"What's  the  matter  with  her,  anyway?" 

"Creckedmebby." 

He  had  acted  so  unusual  for  the  last  ten  minutes 


The  Eyes  of  a  Friend  123 

that,  as  I  have  said,  I  had  more  than  once  momentary 
misgivings  as  to  his  sanity.  Yet  he  now  seemed 
so  natural  that  I  almost  believed  that  I  was  mis- 
taken in  how  he  had  acted.  He  was  the  old  Skid 
once  more.  We  undressed  slowly  in  silence  and  went 
to  bed.  I  determined  on  the  morrow  I  would  drive 
the  killdeer  ideas  out  of  his  mind.  After  the  candle 
flame  was  extinguished  and  I  had  plunged  into  my 
noisily  startled  bed  and  settled,  I  heard  a  whisper 
in  the  darkness  of  the  room,  and  I  am  sure  there 
was  uttered  something  like  a  man  talking  to  himself 
when  he  forgets  his  surroundings — "  Geedang  thet 
killdeer  anyways." 


CHAPTER  XIII 
ANGELINA  PUFFER 

IT  was  eight  o'clock  next  morning  when  I  awoke 
at  a  farmer's  disreputable  hour  of  eight  o'clock. 
I  had  overslept  at  least  two  and  a  half  hours.  Skid 
was  gone.  I  rose  feeling  sheepish,  and  going  into 
Mrs.  Puffer's  kitchen  found  that  blessed  cook  had 
kept  my  breakfast  hot.  I  do  not  mean  a  stale  break- 
fast kept  warm,  any  cook  can  do  that. 

"  I  guess  you  and  Skiddie  sat  up  pretty  late  last 
night,"  and  I  noticed  something  faintly  acerb  in 
her  manner.  While  I  ate  she  sat  by  the  window 
paring  some  yellow  fall  pippins  with  that  skill  no 
man  can  ever  hope  to  attain.  I  looked  at  her  cov- 
ertly a  great  deal  closer  than  I  had  ever  done  before. 
How  could  this  woman  be  the  mother  of  Skid  Puffer? 
She  was  tall,  well  rounded  for  a  woman  of  sixty, 
with  keen  but  broken  gray  eyes,  thin  lips,  a  rigidly 
severe  face  with  a  smile  at  times  of  promotive  amia- 
bility that  had  not  a  single  curve  of  humor  in  it. 
She  had  the  grim  glance  and  stiff  mien  of  a  hard- 
working and  disappointed  New  England  woman. 
Perhaps  she  had  too  that  ever  present  consciousness 
of  unfailing  righteousness,  bent  but  never  broken, 
over  a  marital  wheel  of  sacrifice.  It  seemed  to  me 

124 


Angelina  Puffer  125 

she  was  a  woman  of  fine  capacities  who  had  brooded 
unavailingly  in  secret,  because  like  ten  thousand  other 
housewives  she  was  misfitted  in  marriage  and  had 
no  hope  of  any  new  horizons.  Had  I  not  heard 
Skid  tell  that  he  had  seen  her  weep  one  time  over 
a  sitting  hen,  I  would  never  have  thought  that  acid 
face  was  ever  stained  with  as  cheap  a  thing  to  her 
as  a  domestic  tear.  And  this  woman  was  Skid's 
mother. 

I  had  seen  her  reading  the  Bible  many  times  and 
had  whistled  with  amazement  when  the  General  told 
me  she  knew  all  the  poetry  there  was  in  the  old 
English  Reader.  He  said  that  the  Squire  told  him 
one  time  that  Angelina  had  taught  him  all  his  elocu- 
tion and  that  she  alone  recited  to  her  husband  the 
"  Nightingale  and  the  Glowworm  "  and  "  Alexander 
Selkirk  "  from  memory. 

I  had  never  seen  Skid  read  anything  but  his  book 
of  the  Crusaders,  but  there  was  an  old  file  of  an 
agricultural  weekly  on  top  of  the  cupboard.  He 
went  to  the  Puffer  post-office  once  a  week,  and  in- 
variably took  a  letter  and  brought  at  least  one  back 
from  New  England  friends.  And  I  was  told  those 
letters  had  been  going  on  for  at  least  forty  years. 

"  You  have  lived  here  a  great  many  years,  Mrs. 
Puffer;  aren't  there  a  great  many  changes  going  on?  " 

"  I  have  lived  out  here  forty  years,"  she  answered, 
"  and  I  can't  see  a  particle  of  difference  in  anybody 
here  yet,  except  that  each  is  older."  As  she  sat 
there  silently  peeling  those  apples  I  was  suddenly 
possessed  with  perhaps  a  mean  curiosity  to  know 


126  Pufferland 

the  secret  meanings  of  her  life.  No  one,  I  thought, 
anywhere  on  earth  could  have  doubted  her  integrity, 
her  chastity,  her  cleanliness  of  soul,  her  sanity,  her 
regularity  of  conduct,  her  coldness  of  heart. 

"  Mrs.  Puffer,"  I  broke  in  on  those  apples  ab- 
ruptly, "  you  ought  to  move  out  of  this.  You  and 
Skid  are  as  much  out  of  place  here  as  a  humming- 
bird in  a  goose  nest."  Perhaps  this  was  not  a  very 
brilliant  opening. 

"  I  guess — "  she  said.  I  could  not  tell  whether 
those  two  short  words  were  the  leaders  of  a  drove 
of  words  or  whether  they  were  more  like  a  snowy 
door  shut  in  my  face. 

"  I'd  like  to  see  you  settled  down  with  Skid  some- 
where, say  in  Connecticut.  There  you'd  be  in  so- 
ciety that  would  appreciate  and  understand  you. 
Then  Skid  could  be  educated.  Why  not?  " 

"I  never  had  anything  I  wanted  except  Skid." 
I  noticed  that  the  paring  knife  whirled  a  little  more 
determinedly  around  the  flesh  of  the  pippins,  the 
mouth  wrinkled  more  tightly  and  a  faint  flush  grew 
in  her  withered  cheeks. 

I  have  done  some  very  dare-devil  things  in  my 
life,  most  of  which  I  repented  of  afterward.  I 
would  stir  this  woman  up.  She  must  have  some 
secret.  How  had  she,  a  New  England  woman, 
met  Abe  Puffer?  Why  had  she  married  him?  So 
I  stumbled  out  with: 

"  Mrs.  Puffer,  why  is  Skid  afraid  of  a  killdeer?  " 
The  paring  knife  stopped  with  a  jerk,  then  clattered 
to  the  floor;  a  look  of  fear  and  misery  filled  her 


Angelina  Puffer  127 

wrinkled  face.  Her  jaw  dropped.  But  as  she 
stared,  I  saw  her  face  lighten  and  soften;  a  happy 
relief  swept  in;  then  recovering,  she  said  evenly, 
stonily,  "  You'll  have  to  ask  Skid,  I  don't  know." 

My  chance  shot  brought  down  only  feathers  and 
the  gun's  recoil  had  hurt  the  marksman. 

"  Skid  showed  me  that  letter  this  morning,  said 
he  told  you  everything.  I  thought  I  understood  that 
boy.  But  I  don't.  He's  kept  it  secret  for  years." 
She  went  to  the  stove,  poked  the  fire  viciously, 
slammed  the  damper  down,  then  up  again,  and  re- 
turned to  her  pan  of  apples.  Diplomatically  as 
I  knew  how,  I  suggested  a  plan  for  Skid's  education. 
She  could  rent  or  sell  her  farm  and  could  go  some- 
where so  that  she  could  be  with  him.  I  flattered 
her  as  softly  and  slyly  as  I  knew  how.  She  was 
now  rolling  out  some  dough  pie,  silently  listening. 
I  told  her  she  deserved  a  better  fate  than  to  dry  up 
on  the  edge  of  the  Kankakee  swamp.  She  ought 
to  think  of  Skid.  She  had  made  many  unappreciated 
sacrifices  all  her  life.  Was  it  right  to  let  her  son 
grow  up  in  the  barbarities  of  Pufferdom? 

"  Skid  is  my  son  by  raisin'  and  by  right  of  law. 
If  I  am  satisfied  why  should  you  interfere?"  She 
had  whirled  round  and  was  eying  me  fiercely. 
"  That  hussy  down  there  at  the  Crossins  is  trying 
to  steal  him  away.  I  have  suffered  enough  the  last 
forty-five  years;  there's  entirely  too  many  people 
amixing  in  my  affairs.  If  Skid  is  satisfied  who  should 
interfere?" 

"But  Skid  is  not  satisfied;  you  know  that.     He 


128  Pufferland 

will  run  off."  That  was  a  most  brazen  shot,  but  it 
brought  blood. 

"Did  he  tell  you  that?"  She  was  transformed 
in  an  instant.  She  reminded  me  of  Ann  Hutchinson 
defying  the  Puritan  elders.  She  rose,  dominant, 
fierce,  glowering;  her  breath  came  gustily,  her  eyes 
glinted  blue  flames. 

"  Not  a  word,  Mrs.  Puffer,  but  you  know  it  as 
well  as  I  do." 

She  sat  down  limply.  The  sudden  fire  had  died 
out.  She  stared  away  before  her  with  her  hands 
dejectedly  between  her  knees.  "  I  have  been  won- 
dering that  for  years.  I  guess  it's  nothing  but  ashes 
after  all." 

I  felt  a  profound  pity  for  her  and  wondered  what 
I  could  say  that  would  make  her  happier.  I  sud- 
denly boldened: 

"  Let  me  take  Skid  away,  dress  him  differently, 
teach  him,  show  him  the  world."  She  had  started 
up  tensely  defiant,  but  not  noticing  I  kept  on.  "  I 
will  put  up  your  farm  for  sale,  then  you  can  sell 
and  buy  a  little  place  somewhere  where  you  can  be 
appreciated  and  board  Skid,  er — I  mean  you  can 
give  him  a  home  while  he  is  going  to  school.  You 
can  keep  together.  See?"  I  stopped,  awaiting  her 
assent.  She  bent  forward,  her  eyes  introspective, 
her  thoughts  far  away. 

"  This  morning  Skiddie  came  in  saying  he  was 
going  down  to  see  the  teacher  and  have  it  out  with 
her.  Then  he  showed  me  that  letter.  I  could  do 
nothing  with  him;  you  seem  to  have  more  influence 


Angelina  Puffer  129 

over  him  than  I  have.  Such  things  breaks  a  mother's 
heart.  I  don't  care  what.  Do  as  you  please.  It's 
all  ashes  after  all.  Just  ashes  with  scorching  coals 
in  them.  Just  as  you  say;  just  as  Skid  says;  just 
so  you  keep  him  for  me  till  I  die." 


CHAPTER  XIV 
TAKING  THE  BULL  BY  THE  FOOT 

I  HEARD  a  noise  out  in  the  summer-house  and  saw 
that  Skid  had  returned.  I  expected  to  find  him  at 
least  excitedly  serious,  but  he  was  very  like  a  person 
in  a  singing  state  of  mind.  I  sat  down  with  him. 
His  cheeks'  weather  tint  could  not  conceal  his  glow- 
ing color  and  his  magic  eyes  flashed  with  half  sup- 
pressed joyfulness.  He  opened  out  with  noisy  joy, 
slamming  his  dirty  old  wool  hat  on  the  floor  with 
a  hearty  fling  and  cocked  his  red  feet  on  my  bed 
as  he  sat  in  his  decrepit  rocker. 

S'mornin'  I  was  up  'ith  the  catbirds,  done  my 
chores,  hed  a  snatch  o'  breakfas',  hed  a  little  set-to 
'ith  Mom  an*  nen  made  fer  the  Crossins.  I  felt 
purty  anxious  at  firs'  an'  hed  to  whistle  to  skeer  the 
rats  away.  I  guess  mebby  I  spit  on  my  han's  fer 
courage.  Say,  it  aint  whut  it's  cracked  up  to  be  to 
kin'  do  charge  like  a  groun'hog  on  a  fine  bird  dog. 
Nix;  excuse  me-e  mister.  You  see  I  hed  n't  jus' 
thought  out  the  rashsheonashunin'  details. 

He  shot  a  side  glance  at  me  from  under  his  fine 
brows  without  adding,  "  as  Pop  ust  to  say." 

I  found  'er  'bout  two  mile  this  side  the  Crossins 
botanizin'.  Thet's  th'immortal  vocoboloarry  she 

130 


Taking  the  Bull  by  the  Foot          131 

used  Clonel — botanizin'.  We  jus'  kin'  do  bumped 
into  each  ether  'fore  we  knowed.  She  was  settin' 
on  a  log  bendin'  over  some  blue  flowers.  Shucks! 
I  knowed  they  was  Spiderwort  'fore  she  said  a  word. 
Soon's  she  saw  me  she  jumped  up  an'  the  blood 
left  'er  face.  She  looked  wite  and  dry  fer  a  fac'. 
Heavins  but  she's  a  looker! 

Drec'ly  she  says  'ith  a  bluebirdy  voice,  "  Good 
mornin'  Mister  Puffer."  And  Skid  laughed  musi- 
cally, very  musically  for  a  swamp  boy  as  he  mimicked 
"  Mi-s-t-er."  Wy  I  never  was  tagged  'ith  thet  golly 
whangin'  handle  before.  "  Mi-i-is-t-e-r  " — again 
Skid  imitated  rudely  the  strange  appellation.  I  said 
polite  though,  mebby  es  polite  es  Richard  cur  de 
line,  "  Good  mornin'  Miss  Greyson,"  an'  I  tetched 
my  ol'  hat  jus'  like  you  did  onct  to  Jake  Spading's 
woman.  She  did  look  s'prised.  I  guess  she  was 
es  s'prised  most  es  much  es  I  was.  Gee  whang  I 
was  some ! 

Nen  I  let  on  es  ef  I  was  perceedin'  down  to  the 
furside  o'  White  county  to  buy  a  drove  o'  cattle  er 
mebby  agoin'  to  Monticello  to  pay  up  my  taxes. 
But  I  guess  I  was  wantin'  fat  cattle  the  wors'.  Nex' 
she  riz  up — rose  up — I  mean.  Mom  says  "  riz  " 
is  off  color.  Nen  she  ast  soft,  "  D'you  ever  botanize 
Mi-i-s-ter  Puffer?" 

Say  Clonel,  how'd  you  size  me  up  fer  a  deed-n- 
double-pon-yer-soul-en-honor  botanizer?  He  was 
much  amused. 

I  tol'der  I  knowed  most  o'  the  scientific  names  of 
the  weeds.  I  thought  she'd  mos'  faint  wen  I  said 


132  Pufferland 

thet.  You  see  the  preacher  told  me  a  whole  raft 
of  names  o'  weeds  an'  'e  said  they  was  scientific. 
Woop!  but  I  was  a  pert  scientifiker.  Nen  I  stood 
back  an'  froze  'er  'ith  my  Darwinicks  an'  dignity. 
Fer  the  life  o'  me  I  could  n't  think  of  a  geedanged 
thing  about  'lectricity  though. 

She  looked  at  'er  watch  an'  said  it  was  mos'  time 
fer  her  to  be  goin'  'long  to  school.  Nen  I  begun  to 
crab  a  little  thinkin'  about  them  fat  cattle  an'  my 
taxes,  cause  thet  was  n't  business.  Nen  she  says 
"  I  guess  I'll  g'long  'ith  you."  Wat  you  so  s'prised 
at  Clonel?"  asked  Skid,  bringing  himself  up  with  a 
jerk. 

"  Oh,  nothing.  I  was  just  wondering  if  she  said, 
'  I'll  g'long  'ith  you.'  That  was  all." 

Well — I — should — snickerw/X"  said  Skid  with 
long-drawn  emphasis  on  each  one  of  his  words;  the 
last  syllable  very  emphatic.  "  I'm  jus'  translatin' 
in  Kankakee,  thet's  all. 

We  walked  'long  and  along  sociable  like  jus'  gab- 
blin'  an'  gabblin',  sayin'  this,  thet  an'  th'  ether,  she 
sneakin'  underhan'  looks  at  me  all  the  time.  We 
was  jus'  es  happy  es  little  pigs  w'en  firs'  let  out  from 
the  pen  in  spring.  In  the  course  o'  human  evens  we 
nachurly  got  furder  'long  the  San'hill  road.  Spite 
all  I  c'd  do  I  was  n't  feelin'  so  gosh  blamed  peart 
es  I  hed  been. 

I  could  n't  help  feelin'  she  hed  a  lot  o'  double 
geared  lightnin'  in  'er  system,  es  Pop  says.  But 
she  was  ony  showin'  up  sheet  lightnin'  down  roun' 
the  edges  yit.  I  hed  a  notion  she  was  a  high  stepper 


Taking  the  Bull  by  the  Foot          133 

nachurly  and  I  was  jus'  a  waddler.  I  can't  zactly 
'splain  it  though.  'Er  steppin'  was  n't  swamp 
steppin'  and  'er  face  hed  n't  the  swamp  hang 
in  it. 

Wen  we  got  to  the  schoolhouse  she  looked  at  'er 
watch  an'  says: 

"Wy  it  aint  nigh  schooltime  yit.  Let's  set  out 
here  w'ere  it's  cool  under  the  trees.  How  is 
yer  mother  Mis-s-ter  Puffer? "  No,  she  said 
how  is  "  yoar  mother."  And  Skid  put  a  deadly 
emphasis  on  "  yoar."  "  I  want  to  talk  to  you  a 
little." 

Cracky!  Wasn't  she  takin'  the  bull  by  the  foot 
though?  "Is  'yoar'  mother  well  Mi-i-ster  Puf- 
fer?" 

Nen  ther  was  a  sort  o'  lull.  She  looked  me  square 
in  the  face  es  we  was  settin'  there  an'  said  plain  out, 
"  Your  eyes  is  jus'  like  the  eyes  of  a  dear  frien'  o' 
mine."  There  'twas!  "  Wy,"  says  she,  "  I'd  give 
the  worl'  to  know  wher  she  is." 

"Is  'er  name  Claire?  "  I  ast  cool.  She  straight- 
ened up  an'  der  breath  stopped.  Her  ches'  rose  in 
a  big  wave,  helt  a  little  bit  nen  sunk  down.  She 
was  w'ite  es  death.  She  was  mighty  quiet  'bout  a 
minnit,  nen  she  said  cold  like,  "  Now  you  must  tell 
me  all  about  it." 

She  did  n't  say  Skid  er  Mister  ner  look  like  ther 
was  any  excuses  comin'.  I  jus'  knowed  thet  very 
minit  I  hed  to  pump  er  drown.  And  /  pumped. 

Thet  letter  was  burnin'  a  hole  in  my  shirt;  I  took 
it  out  an'  handed  it  to  'er  'thout  savin'  a  word.  She 


134  Pufferland 

locked  'er  face  up  an'  read  it  through ;  caught  up  her 
breath,  nen  read  it  through  the  second  time. 

Nen  she  handed  it  back  an'  looked  me  right  in 
the  eye.  She  did  n't  look  very  frien'ly  either.  I 
hed  been  so  peart  an'  her  heart  was  sore  er  sothin'. 
There  was  to  be  no  foolin'  now;  and  somehow  I 
felt  ashamed. 

"Tell  me  the  res',"  she  said,  an'  I  said,  "Ther 
aint  any  rest.  I'd  like  to  know  who  wrote  thet 
letter,  Miss  Greyson?  "  I  said  Miss  Greyson  'stead 
o'  teacher,  though  mos'  ev'rybody  says  "  teacher " 
'roun'  here. 

"  My  father  Judge  Greyson  wrote  thet  letter  and 
— it's  sacred." 

Nen  I  tol'  der  all  about  findin'  it  an'  about  the 
preacher  who  taught  me  to  spell  and  write  thet  sum- 
mer an'  ev'ry  thing  I  knowed  'cept  about  the  dead 
woman.  I  don't  feel  right  about  hidin'  thet.  I 
couldn't  bear  to  open  thet.  Lots  o'  reasons  w'y, 
too.  Nen  I  got  to  workin'  the  battery  m'sef.  She 
tol'  thet  Robert  Greyson  was  'er  step  er  half  brother 
er  sothin'  but  wasn't  of  her  blood  in  any  way,  ner 
her  father's  flesh  er  blood  in  anyway.  Gosh,  thet 
mixed  me  up.  But  Lem,  whoever  'e  was,  hed  been 
a  member  o'  the  family  but  he  wasn't  any  blood 
relation  either. 

She  said  her  father  married  twict  an'  the  two 
boys,  stepsons  I  guess,  was  bad  an1  no  good  an'  thet 
he  hed  tried  to  bring  'm  up  right  but  they  was  allus 
makin'  trouble  an'  disgrace.  I  heard  'er  say,  'at 
she  's  just  a  little  kid  an'  this  Claire  was  'er  father's 


Taking  the  Bull  by  the  Foot 

adopted  chil'  nen  run  off  an'  got  married  w'en  'bout 
eighteen.  And  she  said  she  was  on'y  a  little  tot 
but  she  loved  Claire  es  much  es  she  did  'er  mother. 
"This  Mason,"  she  says,  "was  Claire's  husban'. 
None  of  us  ever  saw  him."  Nen  she  tol'  'bout  how 
they  'd  been  huntin'  Claire  fer  years  an'  they  didn't 
know  what'd  become  of  Lem  er  Robert  Greyson  er 
Mason  an'  lots  more.  She  got  up  sayin'  "  it's 
'bout  schooltime,"  an'  we  walked  to'ards  the  school- 
house. 

I  spoke  up,  "  Teacher  I'm  all  mixed  up.  Looks 
like  my  eyes  was  someway  responsible  fer  sothin'." 
An'  I  guess  mebby  I  looked  kin'  do  mad. 

Nen  Clonel,  she  stuck  out  her  han'  smilin'  sof 
an'  I  guess  like  a  nangel,  'er  face  meltin'  into  the 
fines'  lookin'  human  bein'  es  ever  I  s'pect  to  see  in 
this  worl',  an'  says,  "  Skid  yer  eyes  air  jus'  like 
Claire's  eyes,  yer  face  in  a  dozen  ways  reminds  me 
o'  Claire,  the  sweetes',  lovlies',  mos'  beautiful  being 
out  of  heaven." 

An'  Clonel,  wat  do  you  think  I  done?  I  snorted 
out,  "  I  guess  yer  Claire  wouldn't  a  took  the  blue 
ribbon  fer  beauty  at  the  county  fair,"  an'  I  laughed 
kin'  do  'shamed  an'  started  to  put  out.  An'  she  was 
sort  o'  'shamed  an'  mad,  too,  es  she  bed  said  more'n 
she  wanted  to.  Some  pink  leapt  in  'er  face,  an'  'er 
eyes  shot  gleamin's  like  a  cat  es  looks  efter  a  bird 
es  he's  jus'  flew  away  wen  the  cat  was  ready  to  grab 
it.  Ever  seen  a  hen-hawk  Clonel?"  he  asked  in 
deep  seriousness,  "  es  flutters  over  a  tuft  o'  grass 
wher  a  quail  is  hidin'?  Ever  seen  it  come  down 


136  Pufferland 

'ith  its  feet  a  stickin'  out  nen  drop  quick  an'  see 
the  blood  squirt  an'  the  feather  fly?  Well  thet's 
'bout  the  way  she  looked  an'  mebby  felt. 

She  said  slow,  'er  voice  remindin'  of  a  bulldog  es 
lets  out  a  long  level  growl  'fore  'e  goes  to  fight, 
"  You  seem  to  be  a  very  tender  souled  young  man. 
Ef  you  hed  any  heart  I'd  think  Claire  was  yer 
mother." 

Nen  fer  a  fact  Clonel,  I  was  ready  to  bawl, 
even  ef  I  am  nineteen  years  ol'  next  July.  An'  jus' 
es  quick  es  she  said  it  an'  looked  at  me,  tears  squirted 
sudden  out  of  'er  eyes  an'  she  stuck  out  'er  han'  an' 
said,  "  Fergive  me  Skid,  I  didn't  mean  that,"  an' 
smilin'  through  'er  tears  she  kin'  do  gulped  'n  went 
in  the  schoolhouse. 

Skid  had  stopped.  He  was  gravely  staring  at  his 
red  feet  as  if  the  story  was  ended. 

"  Well,  what  did  you  do  when  she  left  you  stand- 
ing there,  Skid?  "  I  asked  softly. 

He  looked  up  quickly,  rose,  walked  agitatedly 
around,  then,  suddenly  calm,  he  sat  down  again  with 
the  old  humorous  twinkle  in  his  eyes.  "  Well  won- 
derin'  wat  'd  struck  me  I  come  to,  nen  kin'  do  angled 
off  back'ards  like  a  crawfish  an'  gittin'  clean  of  every- 
thing, I  turned  an'  broke  down  the  San'hill  road 
'bout  like  Morgie  runnin'  off.  I  guess  I  didn't  take 
more'n  two  breaths  fer  two  miles.  I  guess  ef  I 
hadn't  been  p'inted  down  the  San'hill  road  mebby 
I  would've  cut  mos'  anywhere  acrost  the  country  an' 
mebby  run  in  the  swamp  an'  hev  been  teetotally 
drownded." 


Taking  the  Bull  by  the  Foot          137 

He  seemed  to  be  himself  again.  I  was  eager  to 
know  more,  but  all  that  I  got  out  of  him  was,  "  Gosh 
blimmity!  Her  eyes  is  thet  fine  and  'er  face  so 
lovin'  an'  her  han'  is  thet  sof  es, — es, — I'll  bee 
teetotally  dingbusted  ef  I  know  w'at." 


CHAPTER  XV 
ROSES,  MILK  AND  GOLD 

THE  next  day  after  Skid's  visit  to  the  schoolhouse, 
I  was  out  hunting,  and  about  four  o'clock  in  the 
afternoon,  my  gun  getting  out  of  order,  I  came  in, 
tied  my  dogs  in  the  barn  and  fed  them.  Then  I 
went  to  the  toolhouse,  repaired  my  firearm  and  re- 
tired to  my  little  room  for  a  quiet  smoke.  The  whole 
place  was  very  quiet  at  that  hour.  Skid  was  sup- 
posed to  be  out  on  the  range  with  the  cattle. 

As  I  sat  there  I  heard  the  familiar  squeak  of  the 
big  barnyard  gate  and  looking  out  saw  Skid  coming 
through  on  one  of  the  old  horses.  Further  down 
the  road  I  saw  a  woman  walking  swiftly  towards 
him.  He  waited;  she  came  up,  and  their  hands 
met.  I  saw  the  sorry  figure,  in  his  umbrella-like 
greasy  hat,  in  bare  feet  muddy  and  red,  point  towards 
the  house.  Then  he  turned  and  stabled  his  horse 
under  a  shed,  while  the  woman  came  slowly  to  the 
toolhouse  and  sat  down  on  a  bench  beside  the 
door. 

I  could  see  her  plainly  as  I  sat  there  almost  wholly 
obscured  by  the  red  mosquito  netting  and  morning 
glory  vines.  She  was  not  more  than  a  dozen  yards 
away.  She  was  a  very  handsome  lass  with  a  whole- 

138 


Roses,  Milk  and  Gold  139 

some  appearance,  her  eyes  luminous,  her  glowing 
colors  tender  and  her  mien  gentle  and  sweet.  Sel- 
dom in  my  life  have  I  seen  a  woman  more  graceful, 
of  better  figure,  fresher,  more  attractive  and  lovable 
at  first  glance. 

Skid,  unkempt,  slouchy  from  head  to  his  dirty 
toes,  yet  lithe  and  sinuous,  came  up  and  flung  down 
his  hat.  His  face  was  aglow  and  nearly  clean. 
From  his  shoulders  up  he  was  not  only  handsome 
but  positively  beautiful.  He  brushed  aside  his  long, 
square-edged,  home-scissored  hair  and  cordially  and 
unabashed  sat  down  beside  her.  From  his  shoulders 
down  he  was  disreputable. 

She  was  looking  at  him  with  repressed  curiosity 
as  he  pushed  his  silken  locks  aside,  exposing  a  white 
brow  that  Apollo  could  have  envied. 

Every  word  they  uttered  I  easily  heard;  every 
action,  color,  glance,  intonation  were  as  distinct  as 
if  they  had  been  in  the  room  with  me.  I  did  not 
feel  like  an  eavesdropper.  They  were  in  a  public 
place  and  I  was  in  my  own  room,  attending  to  my 
own  affairs.  I  did  not  find  it  convenient  to  change 
my  position,  so  I  sat  and  smoked  and  incidentally — 
watched  and  listened. 

"  There  was  something  I  forgot  to  ask  you  about 
yesterday,  Mr.  Puffer,  and — " 

"  Wa !  I  aint  '  Mister.'      I'm  jus'  plain  Skid." 

"  Well  then,  plain  Skid " — a  quick  smile  ran 
through  his  features, — "  I  forgot  to  ask  you,  or  at 
least  to  remember  the  name  of  that  fugitive  that 
was  here  a  few  seasons  since.  What  did  you  say 


140  Pufferland 

his  name  was?  "  There  was  an  amiable  smile  play- 
ing around  her  mouth.  I  could  see  that  Skid  re- 
ceded somewhat  into  his  shell. 

"The  preacher-horse-thief?  W'y  Mr.  Lemuel 
Reverent  Mason,  principally  from  nowhers  an' 
travelin'  to'ards  the  same  place,  but  flyin'  still," 
replied  Skid  irreverently.  She  rippled  out  into  a 
musical  trill. 

"  Well,  from  things  I  know  that  was  a  borrowed 
name,  Mis — er — Skid." 

"  Well,  it  wasn't  so  much  to  borry  es  it  was  to 
carry,"  and  the  lad  looked  serenely  across  the  stretches 
without  a  semblance  of  a  smile. 

"  Mason  was  the  name  of  sister  Claire's  husband, 
the  man  who  stole  her  baby  and  blackmailed  father 
and  her  so  long."  It  was  plain  to  me  that  Skid 
was  becoming  sullen;  the  subject  seemed  a  sore  spot 
in  his  feelings.  Only  yesterday  she  had  said  that 
Claire  must  be  his  mother.  What  was  that  to  her? 
He  was  getting  away  from  her  and  was  closing  up 
like  a  clam.  He  did  not  see  her  nimble  arts  of 
fascination,  arts  womanly  enough  to  melt  a  much 
harder  heart  than  I  thought  Skid  possessed. 

She  led  out  fruitlessly  once  or  twice,  recalled  her- 
self, glanced  secretly  at  him,  flushed  and  seemed  al- 
most angry.  A  moment  later  she  peered  around 
into  his  almost  averted  face,  laid  her  white  hand 
confidingly  on  his  sleeve  and  caught  up  her  breath 
hesitatingly. 

Suddenly  he  asked,  "  Who  is  this  Claire  y'  air 
allus  speakin'  of,  teacher?" 


Roses,  Milk  and  Gold  141 

"  As  I  told  you  yesterday,  Claire  was  my  sister 
by  adoption." 

"  An'  is  thet  all  ?  "     His  voice  was  not  cordial. 

"  She  was  an  orphan  named  Ballard  from  the  East, 
adopted  by  my  father  soon  after  his  first  marriage. 
She  married  a  rascal  named  Mason,  who  helped 
steal  her  baby.  We  have  run  every  clue  out  for 
many  years,  but  nothing  has  resulted  but  sorrow  and 
defeat.  I  came  down  here  to  teach  and  accidentally 
came  on  baffling  circumstances, — a  strange  face  like 
hers,  and  a  strange  man,  a  refugee  from  justice,  who 
had  her  name  but  was  my  father's  stepson,  Robert 
Greyson.  I  find  a  stray  letter  uncovering  the  most 
sacred  places  of  our  family,  among  strangers.  It 
is  too  much."  There  was  a  ring  of  pain  and  pride 
in  her  voice  just  then  that  must  have  gone  to  Skid's 
heart. 

Who  was  the  Mason  that  he  knew  ?  he  was  asking 
himself.  Was  he  Claire's  husband?  Was  he  her 
father's  stepson  or  half-cousin  Robert  Greyson? 

While  these  thoughts  were  sweeping  through  his 
puzzled  brain,  she  sat  there,  angry  and  unhappy. 
She  had  never  met  a  being  like  this  Skid  before,  so 
uncouth  in  attire,  so  contrary  in  manners,  so  unmoved 
by  her  honest  desire  to  be  agreeable.  She  had  come 
as  a  friend  and  he  had  repelled  her.  He  had  seemed 
glad  to  see  her  at  the  gate  and  now  he  had  relapsed 
into  unmannerly  silence.  I  felt  as  if  I  would  like 
to  go  out  and  shake  him  for  being  so  boorish. 

Perhaps  it  was  two  or  three  minutes  before  either 
said  a  word.  Then  I  saw  her  breast  heave  in  a 


142  Pufferland 

quick  resolution  and  she  said  very  coldly  and  evenly, 
"  Skid,  we  may  as  well  understand  each  other  like 
sensible  people.  I  came  in  good  faith  to  unravel 
some  very  sorrowful  and  sacred  things  that  have 
hovered  over  several  lives  for  many  years.  All  you 
have  to  do  is  to  be  simply  honest  and  frank.  There 
is  nothing  to  conceal,  nothing  to  be  ashamed  of — 
unless "  she  hesitated. 

He  stole  a  quick  glance  into  her  face. 

"  Well  whut  teacher?  "  I  could  see  he  was  a 
little  more  cordial. 

"  Well,  you  taunted  me  when  I  said  Claire  was 
the  most  beautiful  woman  I  had  ever  seen.  And 
you  said,  you  said, — you  know  what  you  said." 

"  How  could  I  hep  it,  you  makin'  me  purty  thet 
way,  wen  I  wasn't?"  and  he  looked  much  grieved. 
"  I  jus'  couldn't  keep  from  bustin'  out,  I  felt  so 
shamed.  I  hed  never  done  nothin'  to  you?" 

"Oh!  you  did  not  understand  me  then  nor  now. 
I  meant  that  I  was  sorry  that  I  said  Claire  must 
be  your  mother.  I  meant  all  the  time  that  you 
looked  like  her  as  a  man  and  you  were  like  her  in 
gestures." 

"Jesters,  what's  them?"  He  stiffened  a  little 
as  he  saw  the  fleeting  merriment  slip  across  her 
mouth. 

"  They  mean  such  things  as  motions,  actions  and 
so  forth,"  she  replied  with  a  straight  face. 

"  Well,  thet  aint  sayin'  much  fer  'er  either  teacher. 
I  aint  purty,  an'  I  never  had  no  chanct  fer  manners 
ner  schoolin'.  But  I  don't  like  to  be  poked  fun  at." 


Roses,  Milk  and  Gold  143 

"Nobody  is  poking  fun  at  you.  There's  some 
sore  spot  in  your  heart  that  I  do  not  know  about 
nor  wish  to  touch.  Our  own  hearts  have  been  sore 
for  years,  and  all  I  wish  is  to  do  my  part  to  find 
her  and  help  her  if  she  is  in  this  world.  Your  face 
is  so  like  hers  in  many  ways,  I  know  it  can  not  be 
accidental.  Yet  I  can  see  no  possible  connection 
between  you.  Any  one  having  an  honest  heart  know- 
ing our  grief,  and  the  long  silence,  would  help  if  he 
could."  The  bolt  went  straight.  Skid  looked  like 
a  half-whipped  dog  trying  to  get  in  the  good  graces 
of  his  master. 

"Gosh  all  blimmity  anyway  I  Gosh  blame  thet 
killdeer  anyway,"  he  said,  jumping  up,  turning  around 
once,  then  sitting  down  hard  with  a  very  troubled 
air.  He  understood  her  at  last.  He  felt,  he  told 
me  afterwards,  as  if  he  was  a  "  mean  lived  dog  es 
would  lay  on  a  whole  strawstack  an'  not  let  another 
dog  'ithin  five  mile  to  come  nigh  ef  'e  could  hep  it." 

A  kind  look  filled  her  sincere,  beautiful  face.  She 
turned  and  looked  smilingly  at  him,  and  his  fine  eyes 
glowed  as  they  met  hers.  Indeed  she  looked  en- 
trancing, and  so  did  Skid. 

Before  she  knew  it  Skid  had  locked  his  arms 
around  her  neck  and  was  hugging  her,  and  it  was 
a  vigorous  hug  too,  with  his  forehead  pushed  into 
her  cheek.  There  was  a  great  change  immediately 
in  the  atmosphere.  She  struggled  up  and  tugging 
for  twenty  violent  seconds  she  pushed  herself  loose. 
Her  hair  was  awry,  hanging  disconsolately  over  one 
ear,  and  a  little  end  of  a  strand  had  almost  cut  loose 


144  Pufferland 

from  the  base  of  supplies  and  was  shaking  aggres- 
sively and  angrily. 

"Haven't  you  any  sense,  Skid  Puffer?"  she  cried 
out  in  tense  anger,  her  face  red  with  confusion  and 
shame.  And  Skid  sat  there  speechless,  looking  as 
crestfallen  as  any  mortal  could  look.  She  arranged 
her  hair,  staring  with  hot  indignation  into  his  averted 
face. 

"What  do  you  mean,  sir?  "  she  cried  with  a  genu- 
ine wrathful  ring  in  her  high  voice.  And  Skid  looked 
foolish  and  miserable.  I  could  not  help  laughing 
almost  aloud.  She  straightened  up  still  more  erect, 
her  clenched  hands  on  her  parasol  handle  holding  the 
point  stiffly  into  the  ground.  I  almost  expected  she 
would  lift  it  and  strike  him. 

"  Can't  you  speak?  What  did  you  do  that  for, 
sir?  "  There  could  be  no  mistake  that  she  intended 
to  have  an  answer  then  and  there. 

"  You  can  search  me,"  he  said,  his  face  covered 
with  conflicting  emotions.  But  he  could  not  look  her 
in  the  face  and  his  miserable  mien  softened  the  in- 
tensity of  her  tones. 

"I  am  a  lady  and  decent;  I  thought  you  at  least 
part  a  gentleman  and  halfway  decent.  What  made 
you  do  such  an  ungentlemanly  thing?"  Her  voice 
was  very  severe,  her  face  "harsh.  Skid  twisted  un- 
easily, rooting  up  the  sand  in  the  yard  with  his  big 
red  toe. 

She  was  ready  to  go.  I  saw  that  if  she  waited 
long  enough  there  would  be  an  outburst  of  some  kind. 
Providence  prevailed.  As  she  took  a  step  away  she 


Roses,  Milk  and  Gold  145 

said  in  a  voice  freighted  with  outraged  girlhood  but 
very  low  and  hard,  "  If  you  are  any  part  of  a  gentle- 
man, apologize." 

Then  Skid  broke  out :  "  Did  y'  ever  see  a  beautiful 
sunset  w'en  it's  all  roses  an'  milk  an'  gol'?  Wen 
the  sun  is  makin'  a  swimmin'  yellow  roadway  right 
off  the  edge  o'  the  skies,  mebby  leadin'  into  heaven 
er  sothin'?  Did  y'  ever  see  a  baby  w'ite  an'  pink 
an'  jus'  like  it  was  flew  in  from  nowhere,  'ith  chubby 
little  han's  kin'  do  diggin'  up  et  you?  An'  haint 
you  kind  o'  grabbed  it  up  'thout  askin'  whose  it  was 
an'  wher  it  come  from  an'  wether  it  wanted  to  er 
not  an'  kissed  it  hard?  Jus'  like  diggin'  right  down 
fer  it  an'  huggin'  it?  W'y  somehow  before  I  thought, 
thet  was  the  way  you  looked  'ith  yer  chin  a  tremblin', 
an'  yer  face  a  pleadin'  an'  you  lookin'  like  them 
kind  o'  sunsets  as  you  want  'ith  all  yer  heart  an' 
can't  have."  His  voice  was  trembling  with  a  long- 
ing and  a  tenderness  that  I  never  heard  in  it  before. 

And  naturally  the  rage  entirely  left  Miss  Grey- 
son's  face.  She  understood. 

"  But  you  want  to  remember,  Skid,  I'm  not  a  baby 
nor  a  sunset.  You  must  never  do  such  an  awful  thing 
again.  We  are  almost  strangers,  no  relation  by 
blood  or  marriage,  and — "  her  voice  was  very  low 
and  gentle,  "  we  are  not  lovers." 

"  Jus'  like  you  said  awile  ago.  I'm  mixed.  Some 
books  I  hev  in  there,"  and  I  could  have  sworn  Skid 
pointed  right  to  my  face,  "say  es  how  the  women 
and  men  kiss  each  other,  'sides  I  didn't  kiss  you  er 
try  to — I — jus' — goshblimmity  all  anyways!" 


146  Pufferland 

"  You  want  to  remember  it  was  very  improper 
and — shameful.  You  want  to  grow  up  and  learn 
what  is  right."  She  was  ready  to  go. 

"  I'm  learnin'  fas'  teacher,  but  this  is  a  mighty 
strange  kin'  o'  worT.  I  s'pect  I  jus'  can't  learn 
ev'rything  to  onct."  Skid  looked  up  in  surprise  as 
he  heard  a  quiet  trickle  of  laughter.  She  looked 
very  charming. 

"  No,  Skid,  it  will  take  you  several  days."  She 
held  out  her  hand  as  if  to  go.  He  hesitated  and 
drew  back.  "  What !  "  she  asked,  arching  her  fine 
eyebrows  in  surprise,  "won't  say  good-by?" 

Skid  took  a  step  forward,  shook  his  head  du- 
biously, and  his  hand  refused  to  come  higher  than 
his  pocket.  She  raised  her  hand  obtrusively,  there 
was  no  mistaking  its  urgency,  but  Skid  was  now 
warming  his  right  hand  in  his  pocket. 

"I  guess  I  better  not  shake  han's;  s'pect  I  better 
not." 

"And  why  not?  "      She  was  really  surprised. 

"  Jus'  because  I'll  be  dreamin'  o'  them  baby  fists 
an'  sunsets  an'  things.  Your  han's  is  dreadful  soft, 
anyways."  Again  that  musical  ripple,  louder,  firmer 
and  freer  than  before.  "Well,"  and  she  let  her 
hand  fall  by  her,  "  never  kiss  a  woman  against  her 
will.  Do  you  promise  me  that,  if  I  forgive  you?  " 

"I'm  promisin',"  said  Skid  very  humbly,  moving 
restlessly  as  he  gazed  in  her  roguish  face.  She  turned 
from  him  and  was  walking  away.  Her  steps  were 
light,  her  head  erect.  After  she  had  gone  a  few 
steps  she  turned  a  bewitching  look  back  over  her 


Roses,  Milk  and  Gold  1147 

shoulder  at  the  puzzled  and  ashamed  lad  that  seemed 
to  me  must  have  been  as  entrancing,  as  compelling 
as  the  music  of  the  Pied  Piper  of  Hamelin. 

That  night  we  had  been  sitting  together  in  silent 
thought  for  a  long  time.  Skid,  assuming  a  con- 
fident air,  tried  to  ask  carelessly,  "  Clonel  out  in 
the  worl'  wher  you  live  how  long  does  it  take  fer 
a  fellow  to  hev  goin'  girl  sense?  Thet  is  how  long 
so's  'e  can  get  along  'ith  'em  'thout  hevin'  a  fracas 
bout  evry  minute?" 

"  Well,  Skid,  seein's  it's  you,"  he  instantly  detected 
my  essay  in  the  swamp  vernacular,  but  I  went  on 
with  deep  seriousness,  "  I  don't  mind  telling  you  that 
some  people  live  and  die  short  of  girl  sense.  It 
oughtn't  to  take  you  very  long — just  a  few  years. 
The  world  here  is  unlike  my  world;  it  does  not  eat, 
drink,  smoke,  play  and  die  the  same;  it  does  not 
talk,  damn,  dress  and  lie  the  same.  Here  almost 
each  one  of  you  is  after  the  other  fellow's  reputa- 
tion; where  I  live  each  is  after  the  other  fellow's 
scalp.  Here  all  of  you  are  behind;  where  I  dwell 
most  all  are  running  trying  to  catch  up  with  those 
who  have  got  far  ahead." 

"  I  s'pect  Clonel,  it's  the  diffrence  'tween  pursuit 
an'  possession  we  ust  to  debate  et  the  literary." 

The  subject  seemed  exhausted,  but  I  saw  from 
faint  traces  of  emotional  movements  by  Skid  that 
something  was  coming  to  the  surface  of  his  expres- 
sion. I  waited  as  I  nonchalantly  smoked. 

"  Whut  about  kissin'  girls  nen?" 

I  did  want  to  turn  around  and  see  just  how  he 


148  Pufferland 

looked  when  he  asked  that,  but  I  calmly,  lazily 
smoked  on. 

"  Well,  as  to  that,  Skid,  I'm  an  oyster.  But  from 
what  I  have  read  I  should  say  that  kissing  right  with 
the  right  girl,  at  the  right  time  and  so  forth,  is  like 
a  sunset  of  roses,  milk  and  gold."  I  turned  with  a 
stony  face  to  him ;  he  did  not  look  ashamed  as  I  had 
expected.  At  the  least  I  expected  a  fine  flood  in 
his  beautiful  features.  His  eyes  closed  in  his  old 
sly  way,  a  smile  faintly  pulled  at  the  muscles  of 
his  mouth,  and  then  like  a  man  talking  to  himself 
in  grave  judgment  on  his  own  conduct  he  said,  looking 
at  the  stove  unseeingly,  "  Wen  I  saw  them  gosh- 
blimmin'  dogs  tied  in  the  shed  w'en  she  went  home 
I  jus'  knowed  thet  the  devil  was  to  pay  som'ers. 
I  knowed  I'd  hev  to  take  my  medicine  'fore  goin' 
to  bed."  His  tones  was  deeply  introspective  and 
impersonal — as  if  a  meditative  man  in  the  solitude 
of  his  reveries  had  his  thoughts  rise  to  the  surface 
in  a  monotonous  speech. 

I  laughed  rather  indecently  under  the  circum- 
stances. I  was  trying  to  think  out  the  best  way  to 
tell  him  of  the  proposed  change  in  his  life  and  soon 
became  serious.  He  watched  me  hawkishly,  for  I 
was  in  a  mood  he  did  not  understand. 

"  Skid,  I  have  been  talking  to  your  mother  about 
a  certain  change  that  is  going  to  take  place  in  this 
part  of  the  world.  I  am  going  to  put  up  the  farm 
for  sale,  then  sell  it,  and  your  mother  is — "  I  was 
surprised  almost  into  silence  by  the  happy  astonish- 
ment in  his  face.  "  I  am  going  to  take  you,  dress 


Roses,  Milk  and  Gold  149 

you,  educate  you,  make  a  man  of  you.  How'd  you 
like  to  do  that?" 

Before  I  knew  he  had  thrown  his  arms  around 
my  neck  and  was  crying  like  a  child.  He  soon  re- 
covered and  there  was  no  look  of  shame  on  his  face. 

He  left  the  room  a  little  while  after  and  as  I 
stole  a  glance  out  of  the  window  I  saw,  astonished, 
that  he  was  or  seemed  to  be  looking  up  in  the  skies. 
Once  or  twice  he  appeared  to  be  listening.  Then 
he  came  in. 

"Well,  what  do  you  say  to  it,  Skid?" 

"  I'd  ruther  go  'ith  you  'an  anything  else  in  the 
worT — 'cept  jus'  one  thing." 

"What's  that,  Skid?"  I  asked  joyfully.  His 
white  brows  clouded.  How  strangely  he  had  been 
acting;  I  could  not  make  him  out.  He  shook  his 
head  solemnly  but  dubiously. 

"  I  guess  it's  all  right.  I  aint  heerd  the  killdeer 
t'night." 

"  Oh,  curse  your  old  killdeer;  drive  out  your  silly 
superstitions  if  you  are  going  to  be  a  man.  Brighten 
up.  Be  a  man." 

"  S'pect  I  ought  to  tell  you;  but  mebby  not.  Ef 
I  thought  it  was  right  and  I  was  not  breakin'  my 
promise, — wy — well !  "  he  exclaimed  with  sudden 
lightness,  "  wy,  say  Clonel,  wen  will  we  git  out  ?  " 

"  To-morrow  morning,  the  Lord  willing.  Go  over 
to  Hi's,  engage  a  team  to  take  us  to  Reynolds.  We 
start  at  sun-up.  Hurry.  Let's  pack." 


BOOK  II 
AT  THE  GREYSONS' 


CHAPTER  I 
WHEN  THE  CORTEGE  MOVED 

THE  June  sun  had  just  peered  over  the  sand- 
ridge  when  Hi  Spading  drove  up  to  the  little  sum- 
merhouse  door  at  the  Puffers'.  The  early  dawn  was 
breathless.  The  long  levels  of  the  green  swamp 
were  still  swathed  in  the  blue  remnants  of  the  risen 
fog.  Far  as  the  eye  could  sweep  to  the  north  I 
saw  the  faint  glimmerings  of  the  thick  waters  of 
the  Kankakee.  The  spent  thunderheads,  lying  like 
a  sleeping  camp,  rested  low  down  in  the  west.  The 
tops  were  brazenly  high,  rimmed  with  silver;  fleecy 
yellows  lower  down  turned  to  outrolling  brassiness; 
and  the  unoutlined  depths  were  blue  and  huge  as 
an  eternal  ledge  of  slate.  Faintly  I  heard  the  low, 
ventriloquistic  boom  of  the  prairie  cocks  answering 
the  cowbells  of  lonely  Pufferland.  The  commingled 
tinkle  sounded  afar  like  the  dim  and  drowsy  music 
of  a  dream.  A  little  blue  smoke  blithely  curled 
out  of  the  stovepipe  joint  above  the  slant-roofed 
kitchen  of  the  gray  and  scattered  habitation  of  the 
Puffers.  Except  the  faint  stirrings  near  at  hand, 
the  only  sound  of  health  and  buoyancy  was  the  hearty 
gurgle  and  pour  of  the  spring  that  raced  down  into 

153 


154  At  the  Greysons' 

the  willow  shaded  pool.  Like  a  sleepy  beggar  Puf- 
ferland  had  just  sat  up  and  yawned. 

Hi  Spading's  horses  were  as  forlorn  as  his  ancient 
wagon.  They  were  reinless  in  ragged  harness  with 
rope  lines,  chain  tugs,  half-burst  canvas-covered  straw 
collars,  flapping  blinders,  all  in  various  stages  of  mend- 
ing. Patches  of  the  long,  still  unshed  hair  of  winter 
covered  their  thin,  bony  bodies.  They  hung  their 
heads  sleepily  and  gave  little  sign  of  life  except 
the  despondent  switch  of  their  rattish  tails. 

The  wagon  was  a  Studebaker,  heirloom  of  earlier 
Pufferland.  It  had  been  a  faithful  chariot  in  many 
a  sudden  dash  when  the  gay  people  of  Pufferdom 
were  returning  from  the  far-off  White  County  Fair. 
It  had  never  thrown  a  wheel  or  cast  a  tire,  but  a 
spoke  or  two  in  the  dished  hind-wheel  complained 
as  it  tried  to  follow  the  wabbling  wheel  in  front. 
It  was  old,  very  old,  and  spoke  in  many  screaking 
tongues.  A  spring  seat,  broken  in  both  springs  and 
surgeoned  with  tourniquets  of  hay  wire,  sat  uppishly 
on  the  front  end  of  the  scarred  and  splintered  wagon- 
box.  It  was  cushioned  handsomely  with  a  stable 
blanket,  healthful  enough  if  the  wind  was  right. 

Hi  Spading,  freckled  like  a  goatsucker,  alert  as 
a  wren,  was  gay  and  happy  in  his  best  Sunday  clothes. 
Was  he  not  to  get  three  silver  dollars  for  driving 
us  those  thirty  miles  or  more?  His  indigo  blue  over- 
alls, still  tagged  with  the  maker's  name,  bright  in 
spots  with  riveted  buttons,  smelled  strongly  of  the 
commingled  odors  of  the  factory  and  the  Pufferland 
store.  He  was  coatless,  suspenderless,  with  a  home- 


When  the  Cortege  Moved  155 

made,  neck-choking,  hickory  shirt,  and  wore  a  funnel- 
shaped  hat  banded  with  a  broad  equator  of  sweated 
grease  and  Kankakee  grime.  Skid,  was  attired  like 
Hi  except  that  he  had  on  dollar  plowshoes  and  his 
late  father's  duster,  which  hung  to  his  knees. 

My  hunting  impedimenta,  the  dogs,  our  luggage, 
with  Skid  on  a  backless  chair,  were  crowded  in  be- 
hind, while  Hi,  looking  like  a  henhawk  in  freckles 
and  alertness,  was  perched  by  me  and  my  gun  in 
the  high  odorous  seat  of  honor.  We  were  ready  to 
move  off. 

Mrs.  Puffer,  calm  and  dry-eyed,  came  to  the  wagon 
side,  climbed  up  and  kissed  Skid  and  her  thin  voice 
quavered  a  little  as  she  said,  "  Colonel,  take  good 
care  o'  Skid;  and  write  evry  week  Skid,  so's  I  can 
tell.  Good-bye,  t'  all  o'  you." 

"Yessim,"  answered  Skid.  Then  we  endeavored 
to  move. 

"  Giddap,  you  ol1  slowpokes,"  cried  Hi,  and  he 
bobbed  up  and  down  as  he  energetically  whipped  the 
rope  lines.  "  Some  horses  es  slower  'n  tar  on  a  col' 
day."  After  which  I  could  see  that  we  were  going 
along. 

We  approached  the  Crossins  schoolhouse  and 
saw  afar  the  teacher  on  the  steps.  Hi  stopped  and 
jumped  out  to  get  a  gad. 

"  Cut  two,  Hi,"  called  Skid,  "  one  fer  goin'  an' 
one  fer  comin'  back." 

"Nix  coom  arous  Skid;  won't  need  any  comin' 
back.  They  allus  fly  acomin'  home." 

The  swamp  bird-of-paradise  awaited  with  normal 


156  At  the  Greysons' 

expectancy  our  dignified  approach.  Hi  stopped  the 
procession  without  effort.  She  handed  me  a  letter 
with  an  apologetic  smile,  and  such  a  smile ! — it  made 
Skid  twist  uneasily  on  his  chair.  She  asked  me  to 
post  the  letter  as  it  was  an  urgent  one  to  her  father. 
She  said  that  if  it  were  convenient  while  in  the 
"city"  (that  meant  Indianapolis  to  everybody  in 
Pufferland  when  Monticello  and  Logansport  were 
excluded)  her  father  would  be  happy  to  thank  us 
in  person.  I  looked  at  the  address  as  I  tucked  the 
letter  in  my  breast  pocket.  "  Justice  Greyson,  In- 
dianapolis." As  we  began  to  gather  to  start,  there 
was  something  more  said,  which  I  forget.  Hi  glared 
at  the  monotonously  switching  tails;  Skid  stared  en- 
tranced at  his  plowshoes;  I  saw  that  he  knew  her 
smiling  was  a  subtle  raillery  intended  for  him. 

Her  swift  glances,  her  laughing  roguery,  brief  as 
the  time  was,  were  for  his  especial  benefit,  though 
she  said  not  a  word  to  him  till  we  tried  to  move 
once  more.  I  gave  a  secret  elbow  punch  to  Hi's 
ribs,  though  I  was  loth  to  go.  Hi,  who  had  some 
wit,  began  to  make  strong  efforts  on  the  team  for 
further  flight.  I  lifted  my  cap.  Skid  still  sur- 
veyed his  shoes  with  an  intensity  and  steadiness  of 
effort  that  proved  plowshoes  were  the  main  interest 
of  his  life. 

"  Good-bye,  gentlemen !  good-bye,  Skid  I  If  you 
meet  my  father  tell  him  I  am  happy  out  here,  for 
we  have  the  most  beautiful  sunsets  of  roses  and 
milk  and  gold."  I  could  not  help  laughing  as  she 
uttered  those  words  bewitchingly.  Skid  ought  to 


When  the  Cortege  Moved  157 

Have  done  something  beside  catching  his  breath, 
wavering  in  his  stare  and  ejaculating  "  Damn "  in 
a  voice  she  did  not  hear. 

A  few  yards  further  on  I  turned  and  saw  the 
handsome,  roguish  woman  standing  in  the  school- 
house  door  with  a  plaintive  light  in  her  face.  Hi, 
feeling  reasonably  safe,  looked  back. 

"  Bet  she'd  like  to  go  'long  'ith  us  back  home," 
he  said  thoughtfully.  "  Teachin'  out  here  aint  whut 
it's  cracked  up  to  be."  Then  Skid  came  out  of  his 
trance.  Hi  had  gone  two  terms  to  school  and  there 
were  doubts  of  his  qualification  to  pronounce  judg- 
ments on  educational  topics. 

I  turned  an  ear  back  to  Skid,  as  I  watched  a  chip- 
munk racing  along  with  us  in  the  tortuous  course  of 
a  worm  fence,  and  said  rather  aimlessly,  "Which 
can  spell  down  in  a  wrestling  match,  Skid,  you  or 
Hi?" 

"  Well,  I  should  say  it's  'bout  a  dogfall  atween 
us.  I  learnt  to  spell  cataclysm  but  Hi  never  got 
furder  'an  the  firs'  syllable." 

Hi  laughed  with  us  and  said  with  a  droll  grin, 
his  face  exchanging  freckles  as  his  features  moved, 
"  I'm  sayin'  that  Skid  is  a  terror  w'en  it  comes  to 
knockin'  down  an'  draggin'  out  big  words.  Got 
it  from  'is  father,  'e  hed  cords  of  'm.  They  say 
w'en  ol'  Squire  Puffer  was  feelin'  chipper  'e  could 
limber  out  a  bunch  o'  words  's  long's  this  here 
gad.  W'y  don't  you  take  a  crack  at  that  guinea 
Colonel?"  He  was  sharply  watching  the  chip- 
munk. 


158  At  the  Greysons' 

"  That  what?  "  I  asked  in  surprise. 

"  Guinea  ?  Groun'  squir'l,  thet  beechnut-eater 
racin'  us  es  if  'e  was  fas'  es  Hi  Stickel's  houn's," 
translated  Hi. 

"There's  room  for  all  of  us,  Hi,"  I  answered, 
not  wishing  to  waste  a  load  on  such  an  innocent  and 
happy  creature. 

"  Well,  I  know  a  good  many  es  is  gettin'  mighty 
slim  pickin'  'roun'  here,  guess  there's  too  much  room 
fer  the  pickin',"  said  Hi,  rubbing  his  freckled  nose 
in  a  subdued,  thoughtful  manner. 

Late  in  the  afternoon  of  the  following  day  we 
arrived  at  Reynolds,  a  little  railroad  station  with 
level  streets  of  sand  and  tired  looking  dwellings, 
few  and  old,  all  surrounded  by  swampy  land.  I 
hunted  up  the  general  store  and  furnished  Hi  from 
crown  to  toes.  I  had  him  barbered,  and  regretted 
no  place  could  be  found  where  he  could  have  a  scrub- 
down,  which,  like  his  new  clothes,  would  have  been 
the  first  in  his  seventeen  years. 

To  make  him  look  as  dashing  as  possible,  I  bought 
him  a  pair  of  patent  leather  shoes,  the  only  pair  in 
the  village,  a  sample  forgotten  by  a  shoe  salesman 
long  before.  Arrayed  in  a  linen  shirt,  with  collar 
and  cuffs,  a  seersucker  suit,  a  flaming  red  tie,  a 
sailor  straw  hat  and  a  pocketful  of  handkerchiefs, 
which  he  had  no  use  for,  he  was  turned  homeward, 
the  gayest  young  Lochinvar  that  ever  disturbed  the 
serenity  of  the  southern  Kankakee  swamp. 

He  was  delighted  almost  beyond  words.  "  Skid 
whut  you  think  o'  this  here — this  here — cataclysm?  " 


When  the  Cortege  Moved  159 

He  stood  up  before  the  spring  seat  ready  to  disrupt 
the  traditions  of  Pufferland. 

Skid  took  off  his  hat,  and  walking  around  Hi, 
viewed  him  from  every  point  of  the  compass  and 
from  every  altitude,  and,  critically  as  a  hunter  esti- 
mates the  value  points  of  a  new  dog,  said  judicially 
with  a  fine  squint  of  technical  exactness,  "  Well,  I 
should  say  you  might  be  toler'bly  safte  at  the  county 
fair,  but  the  firs'  money  you  git  buy  a  pistol.  You 
jus'  can't  tell  what  you  air  up  aginst  wen  you  git 
back  to  yer  natav,  yer  natav  Ian'."  I  knew  from 
his  pronunciation  of  "  native  "  Skid  was  quoting  a 
part  of  his  father's  famous  speech. 

"  It'll  be  dark  w'en  I  git  in,"  replied  Hi  with  a 
deep  sigh  of  resignation.  Then  he  drove  away 
toward  the  green  jungles  of  yellow  sand  and  starved 
thickets  of  Pufferland. 


CHAPTER  II 
THE  SWAMP  ANGEL 

WHEN  we  arrived  at  Indianapolis  we  deposited 
our  baggage  and  housed  our  dogs.  I  looked  at 
the  address  on  Miss  Greyson's  envelope,  and  taking 
a  valise,  we  proceeded  up  to  the  center  of  the  town. 
Skid  was  watching  the  vociferous  hackmen,  and 
seemed  dazed  at  the  strange  sights  and  unfamiliar 
noises,  the  surging  crowds  and  glittering  lights.  He 
clung  to  my  arm  as  if  he  were  a  shy  girl. 

"  Whut  was  ailin'  them  men  Clonel?"  he  asked 
over  his  shoulder,  still  gazing  at  the  shouting  bus 
men  around  the  station  platform. 

"  Oh!  those  men  are  licensed  robbers  that  throttle 
one  another  when  trade  is  bad  and  rob  you  when 
trade  is  good." 

There  was  a  twinkle  in  his  dark  eyes  as  he 
answered,  "  They  look  it  'ith  some  to  spare." 

We  went  up  the  long  street.  After  a  time  I 
saw  by  the  numbers  that  I  was  in  the  block  where 
Judge  Greyson  should  have  his  office.  I  wished  to 
locate  the  place,  and  had  no  thought  that  he  would 
be  there  at  that  hour. 

Presently  I  saw  the  door  number  on  a  stylish 
marble  stairway,  and  at  the  same  instant  a  large 

160 


The  Swamp  Angel  '161 

man  with  short  gray  whiskers  leisurely  pulling  on  his 
light  summer  gloves.  I  knew  that  Judge  Greyson 
was  before  me.  How  I  knew  I  cannot  say,  but  he 
had  a  grave,  judicial  air  and  appeared  like  a  man 
of  importance.  I  fumbled  for  the  letter. 

"Is  this  Judge  Greyson?"  I  asked,  holding  out 
the  letter.  Surprised,  he  glanced  sharply  at  me,  took 
the  letter,  instantly  recognized  the  handwriting,  ap- 
peared astonished  and  expressed  his  thanks. 

He  saw  my  hunter's  dress,  glanced  at  the  gun  and 
understood.  He  put  the  letter  into  his  pocket  and 
with  a  bland  look  was  about  to  go  when  his  eyes  fell 
on  Skid. 

"  My  God ! "  he  cried  and  leaned  against  the 
marble. 

"My  name  is  French,  of  the  Governor's  staff  of 
Illinois,"  I  said. 

"  Pardon,  Mr.  French,  but  who  is  this  young 
man?" 

"  Judge  Greyson,  Mr.  Skid  Puffer."    Skid  nodded. 

The  Judge  forgot  to  shake  hands.  He  hesitated 
an  instant,  then  said  evenly,  "  Can  you  not  come  up 
to  my  chambers  a  moment,  gentlemen,  just  a  mo- 
ment; I  wish  to  speak  to  you."  We  dutifully  fol- 
lowed. In  the  office  we  seated  ourselves,  Skid  dodg- 
ing up  and  down  uncertainly  on  the  spring  seat  of  an 
office  chair. 

Skid  watched  the  Judge  hawkishly,  but  shyly.  Not 
once  did  he  seem  to  avoid  or  to  meet  Skid's  eyes. 
After  a  few  inquiries  he  easily  grasped  the  situation, 
and  becoming  cordial  asked  to  glance  for  a  brief 


1 62  At  the  Greysons' 

instant  at  the  letter  from  his  daughter.  He  read 
rapidly,  returned  it  to  his  pocket  and  looked  in  a 
fatherly  way  at  Skid. 

"  My  daughter  explains  it  all.  She  seems  to  be 
enjoying  herself  out  there  somehow  and  hears  that 
this  young  man  is  about  to  visit  the  city,  and  says 
that  it  would  be  a  favor  to  her  if — if  "  —the  Judge 
had  run  up  against  something  not  provided  for  in 
his  current  diplomacy, — "  well,  to  make  a  long  story 
short,  she  says  that  as  Mr.  Puffer  is  a  friend  and 
pupil  of  hers,  if  I  could  render  him  any  service  she 
would  appreciate  it."  The  Judge  smiled  a  trifle 
miserably  I  thought.  Skid  seemed  wholly  unmoved. 

I  heard  him  a  moment  later  inviting  us  out  to  his 
house.  I  stared. 

"  I  have  some  very  important  business  in  guardian- 
ship matters  in  that  district  and  it  would  be  an  un- 
usual favor  if  you  would  come  out,  Mr.  French, 
well,  say  to-morrow  evening.  I  very  much  need 
some  local  information.  Would  it  be  possible  for 
you?" 

At  first  I  thought  of  refusing;  my  plans  were  dif- 
ferent; but  I  saw  a  volume  of  meaning  in  his  face. 
I  replied  that  if  he  could  accept  us  in  our  hunting 
clothes,  I  would  change  my  arrangements.  I  was 
about  to  suggest  his  office  as  a  more  appropriate 
place,  but  a  second  glance  told  me  that  he  wanted 
us  for  some  other  business  than  guardianship 
affairs. 

He  gave  me  his  home  address,  and  we  descended 
to  the  street  and  parted. 


The  Swamp  Angel  163 

"  Well,  Skid,  what  do  you  think  of  the  teacher's 
father?" 

"  I  was  jus'  wonderin'  whut  'e  hed  up  'is  sleeve," 
said  Skid,  shaking  his  head  in  doubt. 

I  did  several  things  in  the  next  hour.  Skid  was 
barbered,  shampooed  and  had  his  first  bath.  We 
went  to  a  man's  furnishing  house  and  found  him 
clothes  that  fitted  him  well.  I  have  never  seen  such 
a  striking  change  for  the  better.  With  a  little 
straightening  of  his  spine  and  a  shortening  of  his 
pace,  Skid  would  have  looked  like  a  gentleman 
of  leisure  and  fashion,  an  angel  of  the  Kankakee 
swamp. 

I  wished  that  Miss  Greyson  could  have  seen  his 
incipient  burst  from  the  swamp  chrysalis.  So  far, 
I  had  kept  Skid  from  seeing  himself  in  any  mirror. 
We  went  to  the  hotel,  and  I  piloted  him  away  from 
any  chance  reflection  till  I  had  him  alone  before  the 
full-length  mirror  in  the  hotel  parlor. 

"Well,  what  do  you  think  of  yourself,  Skid?" 
I  asked  him  as  I  suddenly  pushed  him  squarely  before 
the  mirror. 

"  Gosh-amighty  an'  thunderation !  Gee !  is  thet 
me?  "  He  had  seen  himself  for  a  brief  moment  in 
the  barber-shop,  but  the  sum-total  of  the  new  appari- 
tion burst  on  him  like  a  meteor.  He  took  off  his 
trim  straw  hat  and  looked  at  his  shortened  locks;  he 
twisted  around  like  a  snake  and  tried  to  see  his  back, 
slid  his  red  hands  over  the  soft  clothes  and  turned 
to  me  with  a  satisfied  look. 

"  Clone!  somehow  I  guess  I  look  'bout  like  thet 


164  At  the  Greysons' 

teacher  at  the  Crossins  feels  nachurly.  Ony,"  he 
added  with  a  thoughtful  air,  "  she  jus'  fetches  the 
highest  places  wen  she  walks." 

"  Throw  out  your  chest,  Skid,  walk  straight  and 
follow  my  example  as  to  customs  and  conventions. 
I'm  nothing  to  brag  about,  but  so  far  these  manners 
of  mine  have  kept  me  out  of  jail." 

"  Ef  Mom'd  see  me  now  I  jus'  wonder  ef  she'd 
think  I  was  a  perfec'  example  fer  feedin'  calves 
Clonel?" 

The  hotel  arrangements  and  conveniences  were  a 
constant  source  of  trouble  to  Skid.  The  electric 
bulb  in  his  room,  of  which  I  forgot  to  enlighten  him, 
was  gracefully  obscured  the  entire  night,  I  found 
next  morning,  by  a  new  straw  hat.  At  the  break- 
fast table  he  ordered  "  same  fer  me "  from  the 
waiter.  When  he  saw  three  varieties  of  forks,  as 
many  kinds  of  knives  and  a  pair  of  spoons  by  his 
plate,  he  asked  in  a  whisper,  "  Clonel  do  you  begin 
on  the  outside  'ith  these,  er  start  on  the  inside?" 
and  he  gingerly  laid  his  hand  on  the  shining 
silver. 

He  was  marvelously  adaptive  and  versatile  and 
one  lesson  was  always  enough,  except  in  language. 

The  day  passed  in  sightseeing,  and  I  was  delighted 
with  his  unrestrained  amazement  and  bubbling  happi- 
ness. 

Judge  Greyson's  residence  was  out  in  the  more 
scattered  part  of  the  city  and  denoted  wealth  and 
refined  ease.  The  vast  ornamental  grounds  were 
beautiful  with  masses  of  color,  vines,  arcades,  marbles 


The  Swamp  Angel  165 

and  levels  of  soft  green  sward.  White  peacocks 
were  at  large,  fountains  played  and  Skid  gaped  just 
a  little  more  than  I. 

The  Judge  himself  received  us  at  the  door.  When 
he  looked  at  Skid  in  his  new  feathers,  I  felt  sure  he 
was  more  astonished  at  his  appearance  than  he  was 
the  evening  before. 

"Well!  well!  Mr.  Puffer,  indeed  I  scarcely  knew 
you  in  your — your — "  He  did  not  finish,  but  cor- 
dially seated  us  in  the  splendid  drawing  room.  A 
moment  later  Mrs.  Greyson  entered.  She  was  a 
stately  woman  with  a  sweet,  wholesome  face.  Skid's 
glowing  eyes  softened  even  before  he  was  introduced. 
At  her  first  glance,  her  gentle  face  paled.  Notwith- 
standing her  repressed  manner,  I  saw  she  was 
shocked. 

I  felt  sure  the  Judge  had  told  his  family  of  his 
find,  and  knew  they  must  expect  something  different. 
His  face  said  plainly,  "  Is  it  possible  that  this  is  the 
swamp  lad  of  yesterday?  " 

The  conversation  ran  on  without  point,  and  I  was 
waiting  to  be  enlightened  about  the  Judge's  business, 
when  a  young  girl  dashed  into  the  rather  restrained 
atmosphere.  Her  eyes  were  shining  and  her  cheeks 
aglow  from  racing.  She  stopped  short,  almost 
abashed.  Then  she  went  up  to  the  Judge,  leaned 
against  his  chair  and  stared.  And  Skid  returned 
stare  for  stare.  Both  seemed  satisfied.  This  was 
Tootsie  Greyson,  the  Judge's  younger  daughter,  six- 
teen years  old. 

Her  mother  recovered  first   and  introduced  us. 


1 66  At  the  Greysons' 

Skid,  taking  the  hint  from  me,  rose  and  made  his 
first  bow.  I  noticed  that  he  had  difficulty  in  getting 
down  to  the  encompassing  luxury  again.  The  girl's 
face  plainly  said  that  she  would  be  relieved  if  some 
one  would  explain  how  it  came  that  two  strangers 
she  had  never  heard  of,  were  having  a  most  sociable 
talk  on  the  weather  with  her  parents. 

She  seemed  to  think  that  Skid  was  a  young  man 
worth  further  acquaintance,  and  listened  as  if  trying 
to  discover  some  key  to  the  problem.  Judge  Grey- 
son  was  not  a  little  halting  in  leading  the  conversa- 
tion, and  at  last  beckoned  me  to  follow  him  into  the 
library. 

I  left  Skid  to  his  fate.  I  heard  faint  echoes  of 
talk  that  drifted  over  the  library  transom,  and  knew 
from  the  infrequent  strains  of  Skid's  musical  voice 
that  he  still  survived.  But  Tootsie's  revival  was 
complete.  She  had  got  part  of  the  kernel  out  of 
the  nut. 

I  told  the  Judge  about  Pufferland,  the  Puffers 
and  my  intentions  as  to  Skid's  future.  Then  I 
showed  him  the  letter  left  by  the  fugitive  preacher, 
addressed  to  Robert  Greyson.  He  immediately 
recognized  the  letter  as  his  own.  I  told  a  part  of 
the  incidents  of  Skid's  meeting  with  his  daughter  at 
the  schoolhouse. 

He  burst  out:  "  There's  a  ragged  blotch  of  mem- 
ory about  the  Puffers.  I  have  heard  of  Abe  Puffer 
— '  Squire '  they  called  him.  He  was  one  of  my 
delegates  at  a  political  convention,  but  this  young 
man  with  you, — why,  he's  enough  like  in  appearance 


The  Swamp  Angel  167 

to  be  my  adopted  daughter's  son.  Oh,  I'm  not  mis- 
taken. It  isn't  a  chance  likeness,  no,  no."  He  shook 
his  great  head  in  forceful  negation,  rose  and  walked 
restlessly. 

"  Colonel  French,  this  protege  of  yours,  yester- 
day looking  like  a  country  yahoo,  took  me  completely 
off  my  feet  by  his  resemblance  to  my  lost  daughter. 
To-day  he  surprises  me  still  more  as  he  comes  in 
like  a  dude.  I  have  spent  thousands  of  dollars 
running  down  futile  clues;  I  have  employed  the  best 
detectives  for  years  to  find  what  has  become  of  her, 
done  everything — no  use,  no  trace.  This  boy  Skid 
Puffer  looks  like  her.  The  expression  of  his  eyes 
is  identical.  We  have  a  painting  of  Claire  in  the 
bedroom  parlor."  I  wondered  why  he  did  not  ask 
me  to  look  at  it.  He  rose,  sat,  rose  again,  paced, 
then  continued: 

"  I  noticed  yesterday  that  you  saw  through  my 
clumsy  ruse  to  get  him  down  here  for  the  corrobo- 
rative identification  of  my  wife.  I  saw  how  shocked 
she  was.  My  daughter  Alice,  teaching  out  there, 
loved  Claire  as  a  sister — mother  almost.  Her  letter 
explains  a  great  deal  too,  but  she's  entirely  at  sea. 
How  providential  that  you  brought  me  the  letter 
instead  of  posting  it.  I  am  going  to  clear  this 
mystery.  I'm  certain  there's  something  in  it 
that's  going  to  hit  mighty  close."  There  was 
a  look  of  excited  determination  in  his  powerful 
face. 

"  Judge,  I  have  a  troubled  light,  too,  in  this  af- 
fair." Then  I  told  him  of  the  dead  woman  in 


1 68  At  the  Greysons' 

the  Puffer  graveyard,  and  of  the  Puffers'  discovery 
of  Skid's  likeness  to  her.  The  Judge  sat  tensely 
listening. 

"  That's  half  a  dozen  links  of  testimony,"  he 
shouted.  I  cautioned  him  as  to  his  over-loud  tones. 
He  asked  in  an  intense  whisper,  "  Were  there  any 
mementoes,  anything  to  identify  her?  " 

"  Skid  said  she  drew  a  blank  in  life  and  that  he 
saw  a  watch  his  mother  had  with  a  blue  fire  in  it." 
The  Judge  shot  erect. 

"  Colonel  French,  don't  lose  sight  of  that.  I  want 
to  examine  him.  Why  not  put  him  to  school  here? 

If  a  private  teacher,  if "  he  stopped  abruptly, 

eyed  me  penetratingly,  then  calmed  himself. 

I  saw  a  purposeful  look  of  wary  persuasiveness. 
He  said,  watching  me  narrowly,  "  I  have  a  fine  like- 
ness of  Claire.  I  have  a  plan,  not  ripe  yet.  We 
must  keep  our  swamp  angel  out  of  the  parlor.  Some- 
how I  feel  almost  as  a  father  would  toward  him 
already,  Colonel.  Strange,  isn't  it?  If  he  could 
get  his  preliminary  start  in  schooling  here — "  he 
paused,  "  say  at — at — my  house." 

He  went  on  with  wary  ease.  "  At  our  home, 
he  will  get  the  more  vital  rudiments  so  necessary  at 
first,  the  influences  of  home.  Those  little  conven- 
tions, the  hidebound  customs,  the  small  misfits  in 
morals,  the  swamp  earmarks  of  neglect  in  language, 
and  so  on, — he  must  be  worked  out  into  something 
of  finer  finish.  If  I  could  persuade  you  and  his 
mother,  Colonel  French, — my  heart  is  so  set  on  this 
— to  allow  him  to  remain.  Let  us  think  up  some 


The  Swamp  Angel  169 

plausible  reason,  something — not  abrupt  or  un- 
natural, er — what  do  you  think  of  it?" 

I  at  once  was  enthusiastic. 

"  Now  if  we  could  persuade  Tootsie  to  help — let 
us  find  my  wife,"  he  said,  jumping  up.  He  looked 
into  the  drawing  room.  "Why,  they  are  gone! 
No;  there's  my  wife  on  the  veranda." 

"  Tootsie  and  the  young  gentleman,"  said  Mrs. 
Greyson,  "are  looking  in  the  birdhouse.  James?" 
she  said  in  a  lower  voice. 

"Well,  mother?" 

"  Just  the  image  of  Claire  in  eyes  and  face,"  she 
answered  with  a  quaver  in  her  voice. 

Then  the  Judge  outlined  our  proposal.  She  grew 
animated  as  he  proceeded,  and  acquiesced  with  a 
little  catch  at  a  sob. 


CHAPTER  III 
A  SWAMP  CARDINAL  FLOWER 

JUDGE  GREYSON  and  I  silently  approached  the 
young  people,  who  were  discussing  quail.  Then 
Tootsie  tackled  the  habits,  habitat,  and  peculiarities 
of  the  prairie  chickens  in  a  pen  further  on.  The 
Judge  and  I  kept  within  earshot.  Skid  began  a 
graphic  account,  as  simple  as  it  was  sincere,  of  the 
sun-dance  of  prairie  cocks.  That  was  not  in  books. 
The  Judge  was  amused  and  Tootsie  seemed  en- 
tranced. She  and  Skid  sat  down  on  a  bench  and 
there  came  more  of  doodle  bugs,  of  hornets'  nests, 
of  the  great  hunters  of  the  swamp,  Hi  Spading  and 
Hink  Stickel.  Skid  was  doing  nearly  all  the  talking 
in  swamp  vernacular. 

The  Judge  whispered,  "  That  is  the  first  human 
being,  from  her  teachers  down,  who  could  talk  my 
little  bird  expert  to  a  standstill.  Sh!  listen!"  We 
stepped  in  a  little  denser  shrubbery  and  heard  Skid 
telling  the  "  San'hill  road  race."  It  was  as  new 
to  me  as  it  was  to  the  Judge.  We  had  hard  efforts 
to  restrain  ourselves.  Placidly  concealing  the  extent 
of  our  eavesdropping,  we  went  toward  them. 

"  Oh,  father,"  said  Tootsie,  whirling  around  and 
skipping  to  him.  "  Father,  Skid — I  mean  Mr. 

170 


A  Swamp  Cardinal  Flower  '171 

Puffer — knows  things  about  birds  and  animal  life 
that  ought  to  go  in  books  and  aren't  there." 

"  I'm  jus'  plain  Skid  miss,"  and  Skid  appeared 
worried. 

"  Tootsie,"  began  the  Judge,  "  Colonel  French, 
mother  and  myself  are  somewhat  interested  in  a  plan. 
This  young  man — Skid — is  to  be  put  at  school. 
Meanwhile  till  we  find  a  suitable  teacher,  why — er 
• — we  thought  maybe  he  might  stay." 

Tootsie  Greyson  gasped;  it  was  a  little  sudden  even 
for  her.  But  in  a  few  seconds  her  luminous  eyes, 
glancing  at  each  of  us  in  turn,  grasped  the  situation. 

"Good!"  she  cried.  Then  she  looked  at  Skid. 
Perhaps  he  could  not  think  of  himself  except  as  the 
old,  ill-dressed,  disreputable  looking  Skid;  he  re- 
mained calm. 

"  Colonel," — the  wily  Judge  seemed  struck  with 
a  momentous  thought  partly  inspired,  partly  luck, — 
"  how  would  it  do  for  these  young  people,  whose 
tastes  are  so  much  alike,  to  teach  each  other?" 

"Brilliant  idea,  Judge  Greyson!  Certainly  we 
might — might  be  able  to  fix  up  a  room  somewhere. 
He  has  to  brush  up  before  he  enters  the  spring 
term." 

"  Above  the  carriage  house,  father,  where  our 
gymnasium  is  to  be,  and  if  Mr.  Puf — Skid,  I  mean, 
shall  I  call  you  Skid?  That  is  just  as  good  and 
proper  a  front  name  as  Puffer  is  a  back  name.  Now 
if  he — "  and  Tootsie  Greyson  paused. 

The  Judge  agreed  instantly.  "  Right,  daughter; 
as  you  say,  we  could  fit  up  those  three  rooms  with 


172  At  the  Greysons' 

very  little  cost  to  Colonel  French.  We  will  secure 
the  services  of  an  athletic  teacher,  as  you  say,  er — 
as  you  must  have  said  sometime  or  other,  and  with 
blackboards  and — and — " 

I  had  a  sudden  outburst :  "  Exchange  ideas,  she 
teach  him  rudiments  and  get  him  ready  for  January, 
and  Skid  would — say,  Skid,  what  would  you  do  for 
the  good  of  the  cause?  " 

"  I  might — might  " — he  looked  soberly  at  his 
patent  leather  shoes — "  set  on  a  chair  and  try  to  look 
solemn,  while  the  ethers  is  givin'  ther  testimony." 
Of  course  three  of  us  laughed.  "  O'  course  things 
hev  been  comin'  so  fas'  lately,  thet  I'm  jus'  settin' 
back  an'  tryin'  to  see  through  the  dus'.  Whut  the 
Clonel  says  is  jus'  whut  I  want."  He  turned  a  wist- 
ful look  up  at  the  Judge, — "  I  s'pect  I'll  be  terrible 
wearin'  on  your  nerves  till  I  git  to  fittin'  in  the 
fambly  es  well  es  I  do  my  new  clo'se.  I  will  lie 
awake  nights  Clonel,  jus'  tryin'  to  make  good  es  fas' 
es  I  can."  His  looks  and  words  sobered  us. 

We  went  to  the  veranda.  There  were  more  ex- 
planations and  suggestions.  Skid  was  to  return  the 
next  day  for  final  arrangements.  We  bade  them 
good-bye,  and  as  we  went  away  I  reflected  that  it 
was  the  swiftest  evening  in  my  existence. 

On  our  way  back  to  the  hotel  I  asked  Skid  how 
he  felt. 

"  'Bout  like  spiled  rain-crow  aigs  in  a  hummin' 
bird's  nes'.  Things  new  an'  strange  is  comin'  fas'. 
Thet  girl  is  'leven  quarters  thoroughbred,  es  Pop 
ust  to  say.  She's  square  an' — an'  knows  a  lot.  I 


A  Swamp  Cardinal  Flower  173 

hev  to  guess  while  she  knows.  Ef  she  don't  know, 
she  don't  lie  about  it  like  them  hunters.  Maybe 
she  can  make  a  feller  feel  at  home  in  thet  big  place. 
Gosh  blimmity  Clonel,  it  looks  like  a  patch  on  the 
outside  o'  heaven." 

"Did  you  say  'maybe'  or  '  mebby,'  Skid?"  I 
asked. 

"  I  learned  seven  new  ways  this  afternoon  o' 
sayin'  the  same  words  es  I  hev  been  allus  saying. 
Ther  is  es  many  more  es  there  is  frogs  out  in  the 
swamp.  I  wisht  I  could  be  a  lobelia  'stead  of  a 
burdock." 

"What's  a  lobelia,  Skid?" 

"W'y  it's  called  the  swamp  cardinal  flower.  It 
grows  in  wet  places  an'  all  the  ol'  doctors,  specially 
the  witch  doctors,  give  it  for  fits,  mad  dog  bites, 
an'  they  make  a  knock-'m-stiff  linament.  Thet's 
what  we  call  the  stuff  out  there.  It  was  invented, 
es  I  tol'  you,  by  Grandmother  Ann.  A  teaspoonful 
is  cackilated  to  lay  a  man  out  full  lenth.  The  roots 
biled  is  specially  good  fer  them  kin'  o'  diseases  es  we 
don't  know  whut  they  are.  Fer  ef  the  sick  person 
dies  'ith  takin'  the  medicine  nobody  knows  whuther 
it  was  the  medicine  er  the  ailin'  es  killed  'im.  Wen 
the  moon  is  on  the  encrease,  nobody  '11  touch  knock- 
'em-stiff  linament. 

"  I  hev  been  huntin'  er  herdin'  all  day  out  ther 
on  the  range  lan's  in  early  fall  an'  seein'  nothin' 
but  rotten  places,  quicksan'  holes,  an'  waste  spots 
an'  las'  year's  dead  blue  stems, — jus'  swamp,  swamp 
and  swamp  dried  up  'fore  the  fall  rains.  Mebby, 


174  At  the  Greysons' 

maybe  I  mean,  ef  the  sky  is  kind  o'  gray,  seein' 
nothin'  but  that  eternal  fightin'  o'  the  high  lan's 
an'  the  swamp;  maybe  thinkin'  'bout  things  es  hed 
no  answer,  w'en  suddenlike,  right  afore  you  think, 
you'd  run  plunk  up  ag'inst  one  o'  them  cardinal 
flowers. 

"  There  it  'd  be  standin',  flashin',  proud  an'  red, 
holdin'  its  head  up  es  ef  it  was  darin'  the  whole  gol 
blamed,  all-fired  swamp.  It  'd  be  gleamin',  shakin', 
defyin',  its  sassy  head  high,  jus'  es  ef  it  was  sayin', 
1  Go  to  hell  you  nasty  swamp.  I  am  master  here. 
I'm  the  whole  thing!'  I  guess  it  looks  sothin'  like 
the  teacher  at  the  Crossins  feels  w'en  she's  huffy." 
He  ceased  and  turned  his  great  eyes  to  me. 

"  Skid,  just  buckle  down  to  work  for  a  few  months; 
take  your  medicine  whatever  way  it  comes,  but  stick. 
Listen,  fit  in  by  learning  how  to  act,  talk,  do."  I 
threw  one  arm  around  his  shoulder.  '  You  have 
the  stuff,  but  it  must  be  shaved  down  to  the  sounder 
grain  for  better  growth.  You'll  win  out.  And 
what  is  more,  my  boy,  some  of  those  questions  you 
have  asked  yourself  out  in  the  swamp  will  be  an- 
swered; or  their  mystery,  even  if  never  lifted,  will 
not  rob  you  of  your  peace  of  mind.  Buckle  down; 
get  into  the  new  gear,  and  remember  I  believe  in 
you  though  you  make  a  thousand  and  one  mistakes. 
Now  good-night,  Skid.  Happy  snores." 

"  Same  to  you  Clonel,  no  Colonel.  That's  one  o' 
the  seven  I've  learnt." 

A  little  later  I  slipped  past  his  door  and  bent  my 
ear;  he  was  breathing  softly  and  regularly  as  a  child. 


CHAPTER  IV 
THINGS  'ITH  ME  IS  KIND  O'  MIXED 

EARLY  next  morning  Judge  Greyson  telephoned 
me  that  he  and  Mrs.  Greyson  would  be  down  with 
the  carriage  at  nine-thirty  to  take  us  out  driving. 
I  have  neglected  to  say  that  the  Judge  had  told  me 
the  previous  evening  that  Claire  had  had  a  little 
property  which  was  now  worth  seven  or  eight  thou- 
sand dollars,  and  he  wished  to  make  certain  legal 
arrangements  about  the  matter  with  me. 

"How  does  Tootsie  strike  you  now,  Skid?"  I 
asked  while  waiting  for  the  Greyson  carriage. 

"  Well,  she's  a  little  the  quickes'  in  brain  travel 
es  I  ever  run  with.  She  is  runnin'  over  'ith  books 
an'  civilization,  thet's  Pop's  ol'  word;  I'm  bilin'  over 
'ith  wil'  things  and  swamp  stuff.  She  seemed  to 
know  me  an'  me  her  in  ten  minutes  es  well  es  we 
ever  will.  She  said  to  me,  '  Skid,  you  don't  know 
books,  but  you  know  what's  to  go  in  'em.'  Yes; 
them's  'er  very  words.  She  said,  '  Skid,  you  don't 
talk  es  I  do,  but  you  air  jus'  a  thousan'  times  more 
interestin'.'  Nen  she  got  off  while  we  was  lookin' 
at  them  white  peacocks  what  she  called  her  philos- 
ophy. Gosh !  aint  thet  a  crackin'  word  though.  Jus' 

175 


176  At  the  Greysons' 

keeps  me  hoppin'  to  remember  'em.  She  says,  '  Lang- 
widge  wasn't  so  much  to  conceal  our  thought  es  to 
expose  our  ignorance.' ' 

"Think  she's  beautiful?" 

"  She  makes  me  think  o'  snake  peters  flashin'  in 
the  sun  on  a  May  mornin'.  Er  like  parts  o'  rain- 
bows in  thunder  clouds  wen  the  sunshower  in  April 
is  over  an'  the  birds  asingin' ;  er  water  bugs  playin' 
— er — gosh  blimmity  I  jus'  don't  know  wat.  But 
anyways  we  took  t'  each  ether  like  kittens,  es  efter 
touchin'  wiskers  fer  the  firs'  time,  air  perfecly  con- 
tented to  go  skippin'  roun'  the  room  like  es  they  was 
'quainted  all  ther  lives." 

Our  idle  talk  led  up  somewhere  to  our  meeting 
nearly  two  years  before  when  I  first  came  to  hunt 
on  the  Pufferland  range. 

"Skid,  honest  now,  what  did  you  think  of  me  as 
a  hunter?  Tell  me  square, — since  I  have  gradu- 
ated." 

"  Seein'  it's  you  Clonel,  no  Colonel,  an'  it's  two 
years  ago,  I  was  kind  o'  fearful  fer  yer  dogs  at 
firs'." 

So  looking  as  serious  as  I  could,  with  a  squint  in 
my  eye  which  he  understood,  I  said,  "  Well,  one  day 
one  of  my  dogs  did  yelp  considerable." 

"  Guess  you  didn't  know  I  rubbed  salt  grease  on 
thet  shot  hole  thet  night  w'en  you  was  asleep.  Good 
thing  you  had  number  eight  loads.  Fellow'd 
nachurly  think  eights  was  purty  fine  too,  fer  snipe." 
And  the  solemn  way  he  said  it  made  me  laugh  out- 
right. 


Things  'ith  Me  Is  Kind  o'  Mixed     177 

"  Sure,  Skid,  of  one  thing.  I  never  told  a  livin', 
breathin'  soul,"  said  I  in  swamp-land  vernacu- 
lar. 

"  An'  o'  course  the  dogs  didn't,"  he  said,  serenely 
smoothing  the  glittering  shine  of  his  patent  leather 
shoes. 

Our  conversation  turned  to  hotel  menus  and  he 
asked  seriously,  "  Wher  does  the  cook  get  them 
frogs'  laigs  we  hed?  " 

"  From  the  Kankakee  sloughs,"  I  answered.  He 
rubbed  his  nose  with  mature  thoughtfulness.  "  Guess 
it'd  be  a  good  thing  to  tell  Mom  to  ast  five  dollars 
a  nacre  more  fer  the  slough  forty  w'en  she  sells. 
I'll  bet  ther  air  four  hundred  billion  million  bull- 
frogs efter  the  cranes  an'  thunder-pumpers  air 
through  ev'ry  fall."  That  "  forty"  later  furnished 
frog  legs  to  a  hundred  hotels. 

Later  I  left  Skid  staring  at  the  wonders  of  a  hard- 
ware shop  window  and  returned;  the  Greyson  car- 
riage was  about  due. 

The  shining  stateliness  of  the  Greyson  carriage, 
with  its  driver  and  footman,  was  a  little  oppressive, 
but  as  we  sped  down  the  less  noisy  thoroughfares  any 
restraint  was  soon  dispelled  by  the  genuine  cordiality 
of  the  Judge  and  his  gentle  wife.  I  sat  with  her 
facing  the  Judge.  I  repeated  once  more  what  I 
knew  of  the  Puffers,  of  Pufferland  and  its  ways  and 
its  inhabitants,  Skid's  character,  his  longings,  his 
unique  ways  and  peculiar  language.  Once  more  I 
told  of  my  experience  with  Mrs.  Puffer. 

But  there  were  two  things  I  did  not  mention,  that 


178  At  the  Greysons' 

comical  scene  between  Skid  and  Alice  on  the  bench 
by  the  toolhouse,  and  the  Judge's  letter  to  Robert 
Greyson. 

The  lines  hardened  round  Mrs.  Greyson's  tender 
mouth  when  I  had  told  her  about  the  foster  mother, 
but  her  only  comment  was,  "  She's  hiding  something 
yet,  I  am  sure."  It  was  a  woman's  intuition  that 
months  later  proved  to  be  right.  The  remark  grew 
in  my  consciousness  and  would  not  out. 

It  was  arranged  that  a  schoolroom  and  gymnasium 
were  to  be  made  over  in  the  upper  rooms  of  the 
carriage  house  and  that  Skid  should  have  a  certain 
chamber  of  the  main  house  looking  out  on  the  rear. 
Money  matters  were  settled.  Later  I  was  to  be 
appointed  guardian  if  Mrs.  Puffer  could  be  induced 
to  assign  her  legal  rights.  Skid  was  to  avoid  most 
of  the  diversions  of  city  boys,  and  his  language  should 
be  of  Tootsie's  particular  manufacture. 

"  He  learns  almost  by  intuition  and  needs  to  be 
told  just  once.  Perhaps  the  swamp  brand  of  speech 
will  come  hard  to  your  lovable  daughter,"  I  said 
with  increasing  enthusiasm,  "  but  he  is  sensitive, 
proud,  and  you  will  scarcely  believe  me  when  I  tell 
you  he  is  shy.  I  can  think  of  no  possible  better 
luck  than  what  you  offer  him.  I  feel  too,  Mrs. 
Greyson,  he  will  be  an  obedient  boy,  and  when  you 
know  him  as  I  do  you  will  love  him." 

She  replied:  "I  feel  an  affection  for  him  now  that 
I  cannot  understand  on  any  other  principle  than  he 
somehow  belongs  to  us."  There  was  a  motherly 
light  in  her  sweet  old  face. 


Things  'ith  Me  Is  Kind  o'  Mixed     179 

An  hour  afterward  they  set  me  down  at  the  hotel 
door. 

Later  I  saw  Skid  coming  back.  As  he  reached 
the  nearest  corner  the  policeman  with  him  pointed 
him  on  and  walked  away.  Skid  told  me  afterward 
that  he  "  kind  o'  accidentally  worked  'roun'  off  the 
main  road  onto  a  crossin'  gapin'  at  winders  an'  'fore 
I  knowed  I's  los'  worse' n  a  spring  chicking  two  days 
olV  As  we  sat  in  the  shade  of  a  long  awning  over 
the  water-cooled  pavement  he  seemed  to  be  approach- 
ing some  serious  subject.  I  helped  him. 

"Any  'breaks'  while  I  was  away,  Skid?" 

"  Colonel  I  wish  you'd  give  the  password  es  to 
them  talkin'  incubators  in  there." 

"  I  hope  you  did  not  make  the  same  mistake  as 
I  did  the  first  time,  Skid."  I  confessed  no  further. 
I  felt  sure  he  had  been  investigating  the  mysteries 
of  the  telephone. 

"  S'pect  the  same.  I  talked  into  the  wrong  hole. 
That  '  hop  '  giggled  till  I  thought  'is  face  'd  pop. 
Nen  I  ast  him  how  his  kind  o'  masheen  worked.  I 
hed  a  notion  to  tell  'im  our  kin'  down  home  was 
diff'rent. 

"  '  This  is  a  new  kind,  sir.'  He  was  thet  polite 
wen  'e  tried  to  behave  'issef, — nen  'e  showed  me 
how.  It  was  Toots,  astin'  how  'er  pupil  was.  She 
toF  me  'bout  them  rooms  over  the  stable  an'  the 
jim — jim,  some  sort  o'  sothin'  er  ether.  She  said 
we  was  to  hev  a  special  teacher, — nen  the  ding  ma- 
sheen  didn't  speak  up  good, — an'  maybe  four  er 
five  'd  be  in  at  the  killin'. 


180  At  the  Greysons' 

"  Right  wiles  we  was  jabbin'  talk  into  thet  hole, 
some  big  animal  cut  right  in  an'  says,  '  Is  this  the 
libery  stable?'  I  can  hear  'im  yet.  'Is  this  the 
libery  stable?  '  Skid  drew  his  chin  down  hard  and 
rolled  out  a  deep,  bull-frog  voice.  "  I  heard  Tootsie 
Greyson  tellin'  'im  sothin'  'bout  gittin'  off  the  line, 
'bout  interferin',  nen  I  busted  in  feelin'  purty  mad. 

"  '  Yes,'  I  says,  '  this  aint  the  libery  stable  still, 
huh?  I  am  jus'  out,  sol'  the  las'  pair  'bout  a  nour 
ago.  I  can  fix  you  out  'ith  a  bar'l  o'  blue  bull-frogs 
tho.  How  are  you  fix'  on  the  reg'lar  blue  cowfrogs 
s'morning?'  I  could  hear  her  laughin'  an'  the  big 
animal  thet  broke  through  kind  o'  turned  roun',  I 
guess,  an'  said  sothin'  loud  enough  fer  me  to  hear, 
to  some  one  'side  o'  'im: 

"  '  Something's  got  loose  on  Park  937.  Guess  it's 
the  jag  department  of  the  jail!'  Nen  loud  an* 
fierce  he  whirled  into  'is  hole  an'  says: 

"  *  Say,  cully,  how  long  you  been  out?  ' 

"  I  guess  thet's  'bout  all  es  disturbed  the  air  'roun' 
here,"  concluded  Skid. 

A  moment  after,  I  was  called  to  the  telephone  and 
accepted  an  invitation  to  dinner  at  the  Greyson  home. 
I  told  Skid;  he  seemed  much  pleased,  but  said, 
"  Seems  a  purty  fas'  clip  we're  cuttin'  Colonel.  Well, 
I  hev  learnt  it  aint  the  proper  caper  to  snore  w'en 
you  drink  out  o'  the  coffee  saucer,  an'  it's  ag'inst 
the  rules  to  carry  away  the  silver."  He  was  laugh- 
ing as  merrily  as  I  was. 

We  arrived  at  the  Greysons'  an  hour  or  so  before 
dinner  and  I  noted  that  Skid  seemed  to  know  that 


Things  'ith  Me  Is  Kind  o'  Mixed     181 

his  best  speech  and  manner  were  required.  He 
talked  little  when  the  others  were  present,  but  when 
he  was  with  Tootsie  he  completely  forgot  himself 
in  her  honest  appreciation.  I  cannot  make  clear  to 
my  satisfaction  just  how  Skid  got  on,  but  I  had 
a  feeling  that  he  was  almost  uncomfortably  swift  in 
finding  a  level  in  the  new  associations.  His  former 
rough  charms  of  wit  and  mature  integrity  of  feeling 
seemed  to  be  gilded  over  with  something  better  than 
he  had  had.  I  am  sure  his  table  conduct  was  at 
least  as  good  as  mine.  His  provincialisms  were  lost 
most  of  the  time  in  the  laughter  that  always  followed 
his  remarks.  He  was  learning  to  speak  another 
jargon  more  extensive  than  his  own,  perhaps  with  no 
better  philological  pedigree.  Mine  at  its  best  and 
his  at  its  worst  ran  back  to  dim  ages,  perhaps  to 
the  grunt  or  vowel  deviltries  of  slangwhanging  bar- 
barians. He  would  learn  new  intonations,  softer 
shades  of  meaning;  new  ideas  from  his  active  brain 
would  find  new  words;  but  no  one  would  ever  hear 
more  musical  resonance  than  his  voice  possessed. 
When  the  Judge  had  heard  that  voice  in  the  library 
the  first  night,  he  had  said,  "Where  in  the  name 
of  heaven  he  got  that  voice  I  cannot  understand,  un- 
less heredity  steps  in  and  unties  the  knot." 

After  dinner  Skid  and  Tootsie  went  to  see  the 
changes  already  commenced  in  the  rooms  above  the 
carriage  house.  They  traveled  over  the  natural  his- 
tory of  many  of  the  captives  in  the  aviary.  She 
explained  to  him  the  intricacies  of  lawn  tennis;  sud- 
denly she  showed  him  the  white  peacocks  again. 


1 82  At  the  Greysons' 

He  saw  for  the  first  time  in  his  life,  and  as  if  for 
his  special  favor,  the  peacocks  strut  out  in  a  glory 
of  lambent  ivory.  He  was  wordless  for  a  time,  then 
he  found  his  tongue  and  said  in  a  hushed  voice, 
"  An'  ken  a  bird  bloom  out  like  thet  'ithout  a  fellow 
fallin'  down  like  the  soldiers  at  the  Holy  Sepulcher, 
Tootsie?" 

Tootsie  Greyson  stared  at  the  lad,  but  it  took  only 
a  second  or  two  for  her  to  find  her  tongue.  "  What 
on  earth,  Skid  Puffer,  do  you  know  about  the  Holy 
Sepulcher?"  She  found  that  Skid  knew  all  about 
Richard  Coeur  de  Lion  down  to  the  details  of  that 
villain  hero's  half-legendary  history.  He  might  have 
told  her,  too,  that  that  was  about  all  the  history  that 
he  did  know. 

When  we  were  ready  to  part  for  bed  at  the  hotel, 
I  asked  Skid  how  he  felt. 

"  The  raincrow  feelin'  hes  gone  Colonel,  an'  in 
its  place  I  begin  to  feel  like  a  meader  lark.  You 
know  how  they  flick  their  wings  an'  sail  asingin' 
just  like  they  was  bilin'  'ith  joy?  I  hev  been  thinkin' 
all  day  as  how  I'd  rether  be  a  meader  lark  bilin' 
over  'ith  music  an'  I  would  to  be  havin'  my  fists  up 
like  a  swamp  cardinal." 


CHAPTER  V 
ENGLISH  AS  IT  MAY  BE  WRITTEN 

WHEN  I  said  farewell  at  the  railroad  station  the 
next  morning,  I  feared  for  a  time  Skid  would  break 
down.  I  did  not  dare  to  look  back  at  him  as  he 
stood  there  watching  the  dusty  train  glide  away. 
That  morning  was  the  fifth  day  of  June. 

The  fifth  day  of  the  following  month  I  got  Skid 
Puffer's  first  letter.  The  Judge  had  written  twice, 
so  I  had  heard  news  of  him.  I  also  received  one 
from  Tootsie  and  a  brief  scrawl  from  Mrs.  Puffer, 
who  said  she  was  willing  to  be  guided  by  me  in  the 
matter  of  guardianship. 

Skid's  letter  may  be  offered  as  a  perfect  example 
of  a  ragout  of  mental  mince  without  the  peppering 
of  commas.  I  found  after  some  study  it  would  read 
if  it  were  punctuated.  As  there  has  never  been  seen 
in  literature  a  letter  like  it,  I  give  it  in  all  the  glories 
of  its  sausage-like  style. 

"DEAR  COLONEL 

Its  now  a  month  sence  you  went  away.  Tootsie 
G.  that  is  what  I  call  her  sits  right  over  there  and 
is  telling  me  how  to  spell  the  hard  words  in  this 
letter.  I  am  now  nineteen  years  old.  I  have  been 
all  night  at  it.  I  am  copying  it.  She  has  taught 

183 


184  At  the  Greysons' 

me  to  spell  two  hundred  words  and  most  of  them 
are  just  about  three  letters  long.  I  am  writing  this 
on  a  new  sheet  from  the  one  I  did  last  night.  I'm 
ringing  in  some  new  words  as  I  have  learnt.  She 
dont  ask  say  Colonel  that's  an  awful  way  to  spell 
ast  nor  want  to  see  this  letter.  She  says  be  sure  and 
slaughter  the  ins.  She  means  when  I  travel  along 
a  word  that  has  a  tail  at  the  end  ith  no  with  she 
says  thats  right  to  as  sounds  like  in  why  jus  no  that's 
wrong  to.  I  have  to  keep  spelling  thers  one  of 
them  ings  on  that  word  why  say  ing  ing  ing  three 
times  and  cross  my  heart.  But  she  says  there  is 
such  a  word  as  in. 

This  first  letter  is  a  curiosity  as  to  commas  quota- 
tion marks  and  punctuation  points.  Theres  three 
words  a  thousand  times  harder  than  the  ing  family. 
But  I  can  fling  'em  here  I  have  stopped  to  fix  that 
em.  I  have  crossed  my  heart  three  time  on  em. 
Its  them.  Thats  why  she  says  this  letter  is  a  curi- 
osity. But  as  its  a  letter  to  a  member  of  the  family 
she  never  lets  up  on  that  of  why  she  says  it  cuts 
no  ice.  She  did  not  say  it  cuts  no  ice  she  means 
that. 

I  have  learned  to  put  in  capitals  and  periods. 
When  in  doubt  Skid  jab  in  a  period  take  a  fresh 
start  and  struggle  on.  Thats  her  instructions. 

Say  Colonel  its  going  there  I  slaughtered  thet  no 
that  one  proper.  Ill  start  over.  Its  going  to  be 
gosh  blim  no  I  have  to  cut  the  vitals  out  of  it  too. 
Some  of  the  death  dealing  is  with  I  just  cant  get 
over  with  it  seems  to  me  ith  ought  to  go.  Its  as  for 


English  as  It  May  Be  Written        185 

es  has  for  hes  then  I  have  to  put  a  head  on  about 
a  hundred  others.  Ether  for  other  and  them  dees 
in  such  gabble  as  blind  cant  you  hear  me  grunt  that 
d  on  blind  find  old  and  a  lot  more?  She  says  put 
in  the  crooked  thing  there. 

I  have  learned  there  are  three  ways  to  spell  2. 
Several  ways  for  write  about  three  are  right  thats 
right  she  says  and  the  rest  rong.  I  can  spell  rong 
easy.  That  aint  no  am  not  in  my  hundred  words. 
Besides  the  hard  easy  ones  of  three  letters  I  can  spell 
three  regular  busters  here  they  are  phthisics  syzygy 
and  chamois  nobody  on  earth  knows  what  they  mean. 
No  gets  me.  I  can  spell  it  several  ways  most  which 
is  rong. 

Tootsie  G  says  shes  going  theres  another  ing  come 
into  its  own  to  throw  the  grammar  at  me  soon.  She 
says  its  safe  I  always  said  safte  before  to  never 
say  is  with  me.  Just  try  are  for  a  change.  The 
reason  I  am  righting  this  with  a  pencil  she  just 
told  me  how  to  work  pencil  on  the  paper  lets  see 
wher  was  I  yes  the  reason  is  I  have  to  rub  out  about 
half  the  time. 

If  ever  I  felt  tongue  tide  its  righting  letters.  I 
asked  her  how  she  spelled  tide.  Its  tied  and  tide 
is  right  because  it  kind  of  rolls  over  me  and  douses 
me.  Yes  I  am  certain  tide  is  right. 

We  dont  agree  on  one  word  and  thats  ither  for 
either.  She  says  the  proper  way  to  say  it  is  i-ither. 
The  reason  I  don't  agree  is  I  have  heard  you  say 
eether.  With  the  accent  hammer  on  the  E.  She 
says  always  right  the  pronouns  big  and  maybe  E  is 


1 86  At  the  Greysons' 

one  of  them  skewjeed  letters.  She  says  there  am 
not  I  pretty  near  said  aint  any  such  word  as  skew- 
jeed. Thats  where  I  am  ahead  of  her. 

I  practice  in  the  gym  an  our  each  day.  I  can 
chin  myself  twelve  times  and  not  stop.  And  Tootsie 
G  three  times.  I  can  spell  them  two  hundred  words 
backwards  and  use  them  right  about  half  of  the 
time.  I  wrote  to  mother  and  this  is  what  she  wrote 
back  some  of  it  I  mean. 

Dear  son  You  seem  to  be  doing  well.  Your  photo- 
graph that  is  the  way  she  spelt  it  is  quite  like  Hi 
when  he  came  back  in  his  canary  feathers.  He 
wears  his  freckles  yet  more  than  his  shoes.  The 
judge  wrote  me  and  he  says  he  and  you  come  out 
in  August  or  September.  I  would  dearly  love  to 
see  you.  Its  very  lonely  out  here  since  you  are  gone. 
I  have  sold  off  considerable.  Toots  no  Tootsie  G. 
says  mom  is  famous  for  her  spelling  and  not  one 
word  is  togged  up  rong. 

Alice  is  coming  home  about  September.  Mother 
says  other  things  but  I  am  bout  wore  out  sharping 
pencils  and  rubbing  things  out  I  will  now  take  a  bath 
and  try  to  sleep  for  a  few  hours. 

SKID. 

N  B  I  have  learned  about  N  B.  When  you  forget 
something  you  tack  it  on  at  the  end  this  way.  I 
have  forgot  nothing." 

The  letter  amused  me  very  much  and  I  forgave  its 
sorry  appearance,  knowing  the  labors  of  its  construc- 
tion. One  or  two  places  showed  that  he  had  erased 


English  as  It  May  Be  Written        187 

beyond  the  quick  of  the  sheet  and  little  holes  showed. 
Tootsie's  letter  had  all  the  marks  of  a  school  miss. 
The  envelope  was  pinkish,  with  the  stamp  on  the 
left  hand  upper  corner,  and  was  sealed  with  three 
little  dabs  of  green  wax  on  the  back  with  an  old 
English  G  in  each.  The  writing  commenced  on  the 
first  page,  the  second  and  third  pages  were  written 
in  long  lines  across  both  sheets  and  she  of  course  took 
pains  not  to  write  on  the  last  page.  I  forget  what 
the  perfume  was. 

"  COLONEL  FRENCH, 

Chicago. 

My  dear  new  and  beloved  uncle :  I  want  to  inclose 
this  with  Skiddie  P's  as  a  sort  of  amendment  to  his 
constitutional  labors.  He  is  progressing  famously 
and  he  right  now  talks  a  great  deal  better  than  he 
writes.  I  believe  this  is  his  first  attempt  at  letters, 
a  representative  illustration  of  what  he  is  not.  I 
have  a  spelling  class  of  one  scholar  and  so  far  two 
hundred  words  have  been  encompassed,  words  that 
trouble  his  soul  with  the  shades  of  sound  rather  than 
in  meaning.  I  am  adding  a  few  new  ones.  We 
are  on  the  "  states  "  now. 

The  Gulf  stream  and  the  tides  and  currents  will 
be  the  next  to  flood  his  epistolary  remains.  Indiana 
geography  does  not  afford  enough  natural  phenomena 
to  satisfy  his  cravings. 

Some  of  my  pleasantest  hours  are  up  there  in  the 
carriage  house  teaching  him, — one  of  the  most  fra- 
grant souls  ever  cut  in  for  the  vivisection  of  educa- 


1 88  At  the  Greysons' 

tion.  He  is  remarkable  in  many  ways  and  perhaps 
it  will  surprise  you  when  I  tell  you  that  his  gym 
exercises  show  him  a  wonder.  I  hold  out  my  arm 
on  a  level  with  my  eyes,  and  he  springs  over  it  like 
a  cat.  I  suppose  you  knew  of  his  ease  at  turning 
handsprings  before  I  had  him  in  tow,  but  your  trainer 
has  taught  him  to  throw  a  back  summersault  with 
the  ease  of  a  professional.  Only  once  I  believe  did 
he  make  too  short  a  turn  and  we  all  shook  (like  the 
building)  for  the  safety  of  our  lives. 

He  has  performed  another  feat  worthy  of  im- 
mortality. He  can  draw  himself  up  with  one  arm 
to  the  trapese  bar.  He  is  putting  on  flesh,  too.  He 
stands  five-eleven,  and  weighs  one  hundred  and  sev- 
enty-five pounds — mostly  Troy. 

I  want  to  ask  you  if  I  may  teach  him  to  waltz. 
If  I  undergo  the  dangers  of  being  trampled  to  death, 
— just  see  how  disloyal  I  am!  and  am  willing  to 
take  chances  (before  he  gets  any  heavier)  to  un- 
tangle his  swamp  feet  in  graceful  exercises, — why  I 
want  your  blessing  on  my  missionary  work.  May 
I  teach  him  to  shoot — the  lancers? 

Now  uncle,  I  may  call  you  uncle,  mayn't  I?  I 
think  you  have  done  a  great  deed  to  rescue  such  a 
great  personality,  and  to  prevent  his  going  to  waste 
out  there  in  those  fens. 

You  may  be  solicitous  as  to  his  personal  environ- 
ment. We  have  team  work,  and  a  variety  of  or- 
dinary athletics,  mostly  indoors.  There  are  three 
girls  beside  myself,  and  Skid  pairs  off  when  necessary 
with  the  Professor. 


English  as  It  May  Be  Written        189 

The  girls  are  my  particular  friends  and  loyal. 
Tippy  Shurk  is  the  Chief  Justice's  daughter,  and 
my  confidante.  Then  Molly  Sewell  who  can  "  do 
more  "  facial  criss-crosses  than  any  one  on  this  mun- 
dane sphere.  She  can  stare  with  one  eye  and  frown 
with  the  other  at  the  same  time.  And  there  is 
another  glory  all  her  own, — she  can  move  her  ears. 
Skid  said  in  a  moment  of  forgetful  manners  that 
"  mules  an'  horses  hes  the  same."  But  she  is  a 
well  bred  girl.  Then  there  is  our  own  beloved 
Nell.  She  is  as  strong  as  a  leopard.  We  are  not 
heroines  or  goddesses,  but  just  fun  loving  girls,  have 
our  pains,  our  woes  and  our  hunger  for  candy  as 
other  girls.  Tippy  told  me  recently  that  if  she  could 
find  a  gentleman  sufficiently  handsome  to  appear  in 
the  society  columns,  and  if  next  spring  opened  well, 
she  would  elope, — perhaps  she  would  ask  Skid  to 
go  along. 

Nell's  distinguishing  trick  is  to  make  all  of 
us  girls  behave  when  she  is  cutting  up.  We 
are  not  practising  for  muscular  abnormalities. 
We  are  playing  for  ease,  grace,  muscular  flow, 
how  not  to  step  on  one's  own  feet  in  making  a 
speech. 

I  am  sure  Skid  will  surprise  you  when  you  see  him 
again.  The  swamp  ear-marks  are  fast  coming  off. 
He  never  did  look  or  act  as  uncouth  as  his  language 
looks  in  a  letter,  or  feels  in  the  ear.  He  is  always 
kind  and  thoughtful  and  sincere  in  everything. 
Mother,  I  think,  could  not  get  along  without  him, 
he  is  so  lovable,  so  son  like  and  brotherly.  There 


190  At  the  Greysons' 

is  much  more  I  would  write  you,  but  Skid's  letter  is 
enough.  Your  loving  niece, 

TOOTSIE  C.  G." 

When  I  left  the  Greysons'  in  June,  Tootsie 
weighed  a  "  lady's-weight,"  wore  gowns  to  some- 
where below  her  knees,  and  also  at  times  changed 
to  one  which,  if  she  were  still  (and  that  was  seldom) , 
was  sisterly  with  her  shoe  tops.  I  am  sure  she  had 
no  instincts  yet  of  sex.  In  mental  equipment  she  was 
unusually  advanced,  her  expression  bright  as  light- 
ning, but  she  was  in  that  most  troublous,  still  un- 
delimited  age  of  character,  the  transition  period  be- 
tween face-scratching  and  neck-clinging,  but  very 
affectionate  and  pure. 

I  answered  Skid's  letter  in  a  way  that  made  him 
comfortable,  perhaps  happy.  As  I  was  going  up 
in  the  Wisconsin  lake  districts  "  to  lazy,"  I  wrote 
him  that  I  did  not  expect  him  to  write  again  before 
the  middle  of  September.  I  asked  the  Judge  to  do 
the  writing. 

About  the  middle  of  September  I  got  my  second 
letter  from  Skid, — typewritten, — its  grammar  still 
lame. 

Indpls.  Ind., 

Sept.  15,   1 8 — 
COLONEL  FRANCIS  FRENCH, 

Weaver  Lake,  Wisconsin. 
My  dearest  friend: 

I  have  been  feeling  like  a  meadow-lark  for  several 
days.  Tootsie  G.  says  she  sees  glimmerings  in  me. 


English  as  It  May  Be  Written        191 

"  There's  hopes."  Her  sister  Alice  took  sick  with 
swamp  fever  in  July  about  the  time  she  was  to  have 
come  home,  and  for  several  weeks  she  lay  pretty 
close  to  the  line.  Her  mother  went  out  with  a 
nurse  and  from  there  she  went  to  somewhere  in 
Michigan  for  a  relapse.  No;  that  isn't  the  word 
Colonel. 

Her  mother  is  home  now,  but  Alice  won't  return 
till  late  in  the  fall.  I  have  not  seen  her  since  you 
have. 

The  Judge  and  me  went  out  to  fix  up  the  sale 
papers  in  September,  and  have  just  got  home.  We 
took  a  box  of  stuff  for  Hi  and  Jake,  most  for  Jake 
and  went  to  Reynolds  where  we  got  livery  and  drove 
out  to  the  home  place  in  swell  style  with  a  couple 
of  half  broke  bronchos  that  most  of  the  time  were 
running  off.  As  they  pointed  the  way  we  wanted 
to  go  we  made  fast  time. 

Mother  had  most  of  the  stock  sold  off,  most  of 
the  things  packed  up,  and  will  move  into  the  city 
about  holidays.  When  we  flourished  up  at  the  barn- 
yard gate,  I  jumped  out  forgetting  I  was  a  new 
kind  of  bird  to  her  in  those  clothes.  She  come  out, 
took  one  stare  at  me  and  flung  her  arms  around  my 
neck  and  squealed, 

"  Wh-ee-ee !  "  And  she  hugged  me  so  tight  it 
almost  hurt. 

Mother,  you  know  I  used  to  call  her  "Mom," 
managed  to  put  a  meal  of  cold  boiled  pork,  crackling 
egg  corn  bread,  a  bowl  of  milk  half  cream  and  set 
out  a  dish  of  Rambo  apples.  Oh  yes ;  she  had  dew- 


192  At  the  Greysons' 

berry  pie  to  finish  off  with.  As  Judge  G.  and  me 
were  hungry  as  a  new  pointer  muzzled  all  day  when 
you  are  teaching  him  to  nose  out  quail,  I  tell  you 
Colonel  I  agreed  with  the  Judge  that  was  the  sweet- 
est tasting  fodder  that  I  have  held  my  nose  over  since 
we  left  last  June. 

Mother  was  pretty  cute  holding  out  for  us  prepara- 
tions as  to  beds  and  canned  goods  even  if  she  did 
know  we  was  coming  out  some  time.  The  Judge 
made  music  all  night  on  those  corn  husks  you  used 
to  sleep  on  and  I  dreamed  new  dreams  on  my  old 
sway  back  lounge. 

Next  morning  Judge  and  I  drove  over  to  Spadings 
and  found  Hi  and  Hink  waiting  for  us.  Hink 
looked  as  if  he  was  going  to  take  to  the  timber  as 
we  got  near,  but  Hi  who  had  been  touched  with 
civilization  in  those  patent  leathers,  stood  his  ground. 

The  new  wore  off  of  me  pretty  quick  with  them 
but  I  had  to  drag  the  box  of  presents  out  to  the 
woodshed  and  lock  the  door  and  yank  off  my  coat, 
and  vest  before  Hink  got  confidence  enough  to  come 
out  of  his  humps.  If  I  could  make  everybody  as 
happy  as  them  for  such  a  small  amount  of  money, 
I'd  like  to  have  a  chance  to  try  it. 

There  was  an  overcoat  for  each,  a  complete  outfit 
for  Hink  two  shotguns  with  everything  that  goes 
with  them  except  the  dogs  and  game.  When  I 
handed  the  gun  to  Hink  he  took  it  as  if  it  was  a 
hornets  nest  and  then  seeing  the  clothes  and  shirts 
and  underclothes  he  just  handed  that  gun  over  to 
Hi  and  busted  right  out  bawling.  But  he  was 


English  as  It  May  Be  Written        193 

hugging  me  at  the  same  time.  He  come  to  pretty 
quick  for  joy,  and  begun  to  strip  and  get  on  those 
fine  clothes,  dirt,  humps  and  all.  Then  he  swooped 
for  the  black  socks  and  swept  his  hand  around  for 
those  shining  shoes. 

But  I  was  so  sorry!  His  feet  has  been  spreading 
and  spreading  ever  since  we  came  away.  His  feet 
was  tens  then,  but  he  has  the  regular  swamp  spread 
now  and  levins  or  twelves  is  needed  for  his  foot  ter- 
ritory. I  told  him  he  looked  swell  anyway  and 
slick  as  slippery  elm. 

It  was  a  pretty  hot  morning,  but  both  wearing 
their  overcoats  sneaked  around  to  the  pantry  window. 
I  went  into  the  house  and  told  Mrs.  Spading  to  come 
out  and  survey  them,  like  Solomon  in  all  his  glory. 
All  she  could  do  was  to  set  down  on  the  crock  bench 
with  her  mouth  open  and  fan  with  her  apron  kind 
of  mumbling,  "  Is  der  world  zo  das  ent  a  coomin 
yet  " ;  or  something  like  that.  She's  dutch  as  crout. 
I  haven't  got  my  pocket  dictionary  here  and  I'm 
ringing  in  some  old  words  I  never  harnessed  up 
before. 

Then  the  Judge  and  I  drove  back  to  mothers. 
Hi  told  me  next  day,  for  we  staid  the  second  night, 
that  after  we  left  Hink  sweat  over  those  shoes  once 
more  and  gave  it  up.  Then,  wearing  his  overcoat 
and  carrying  his  old  clothes  in  a  bundle  on  a  stick 
and  his  patent  leathers  in  his  hands  he  broke  for 
home.  He  ran  all  the  way. 

His  mother  saw  something  flying  and  thought  it 
might  be  a  swamp  fire,  Hi  said.  Those  new  things, 


194  At  *he  Greysons' 

specially  the  overcoat  and  white  shirt,  standing  col- 
lar, stiff  cuffs  and  stiff  hat,  though  sort  of  human, 
made  her  catch  hold  of  the  door  nob  for  safety.  She 
was  going  to  slam  the  door  in  his  face  if  he  looked 
too  sassy.  She  saw  his  feet.  She  knew  them,  that 
end  was  her  Hink  anyhow. 

This  is  what  Hink  said  to  his  mother,  Hi  says: 
'  Wachtet  unt  bake  it  das  dlr  nikt  In  fer  soothin 
syrup  fall  in,  die  gyste  ist  villig  auber  die  flysh  ish 
squaw.'  That  was  taught  to  Hink  out  of  Hi's  cate- 
kism  book  and  so  far  as  I  ever  learned  its  the  only 
thing  Hink  ever  did  learn.  And  Hi  said  he  was 
poor  at  that.  Hi  said  so  far  as  he  knew  she  just 
set  down  and  cried  as  if  her  heart  would  break. 
That  part  sounds  just  like  Hi  though. 

The  place  looked  mighty  onry  out  there  this  time 
of  year.  Everything  is  dried  up  and  the  old  smell 
of  rotten  fish  and  dried  up  swamp,  miles  from  the 
center,  was  the  same  old  smell,  with  the  same  burn- 
ing sand,  the  same  dead  thickets  and  the  same  hungry 
look  that  comes  this  time  of  year.  The  long  haired 
fuzzy  cattle  lie  hid  in  the  brush  and  come  out  at 
night  only  because  the  freckled  wood  flies  and  the 
ten  million  greenheads  eat  them  up  alive  in  the  hot 
daylight.  Now  and  then  the  scraggy  looking  cranes 
with  heavy  wings  would  lumber  up  and  beat  slow  to 
the  next  dead  slough  hole;  and  besides  the  thunder 
pumper  about  all  the  sounds  you'd  hear  would  be 
the  steady  click  of  the  treefrog,  or  the  quirk!  quirk 
of  the  redheads  on  the  barn.  It  was  so  lonely  I 
felt  like  bawling.  I  can  see  yet  the  hot  sand  boiling 


English  as  It  May  Be  Written        195 

up  over  the  buggy  fellos  and  raining  down  over  the 
hubs.  The  heat  steamed  up  in  some  places  and 
rolled  and  rolled.  I  couldn't  help  thinking,  may  be 
the  swamp  cardinal  itself  out  there  in  the  blue  skim 
over  the  swamp  was  a  hanging  its  fighting  head  since 
I  was  gone.  And  there  wasn't  a  killdeer  anywhere. 

We  stopped  as  we  went  past  Hink's,  got  those 
shoes  and  told  him  we  would  send  him  another  pair. 
Then  Hink  had  me  get  out  to  show  me  something 
behind  the  woodshed.  What  would  you  guess  it  was? 
He  had  a  nest  of  flying  squirrels  all  boxed  up  and 
slatted.  He  gave  them  to  me  and  I  brought  them 
home  to  Tootsie  G.  She  was  tickled  most  to  death 
and  now  they  are  in  a  big  wire  mesh  cage  as  big  as 
a  house. 

We  overtook  Hi  about  five  mile  down  the  road 
with  his  new  shot  gun;  he  was  sitting  on  a  log  wait- 
ing for  us.  He  stopped  us  and  gave  me  a  pawpaw 
whistle  almost  as  big  as  my  leg,  with  fife  holes  in  it. 
When  he  blowed  it  I  believe  you  could  hear  it  a  mile. 

I  want  to  see  you  Colonel  bad.  Everybody  is 
good  to  me  but  there  is  something  hanging  over  me 
all  the  time  because  I  haven't  told  you.  Only  telling 
you  can  make  me  feel  right.  So  good  bye  and  write 
soon.  SKID. 

Those  last  lines  set  me  to  thinking.  What  could 
he  mean?  I  immediately  wrote  him;  encouraged 
him ;  told  him  I  would  visit  him  before  the  year  was 
out  and  even  went  so  far  as  to  invite  him  to  Chicago 
to  spend  a  week  or  so. 


CHAPTER  VI 
WHEN  THE  MEADOW  LARK  BOILED 

I  RECEIVED  another  letter  from  Skid  Puffer  some 
time  in  early  October,  which  I  regret  is  lost.  It 
was  firm  in  touch,  typewritten,  with  a  reasonable 
plenty  of  commas  pertly  traveling  along  the  lines. 

Judge  Greyson  wrote  regularly  once  each  week. 
He  had  several  papers  for  me  to  sign;  a  bond  was 
to  be  given ;  and  I  was  to  act  as  Skid  Puffer's  guard- 
ian. Mrs.  Puffer  had  assigned  her  rights.  He 
seemed  to  take  a  vast  delight  in  Skid's  physical  and 
mental  grooming.  He  went  into  the  details  of  some 
of  the  athletic  feats  and  was  enthusiastic  over  two 
of  their  peculiarities, — their  cat-like  litheness  and 
strength. 

I  got  a  letter  from  Mrs.  Puffer  saying  she  had 
assigned  her  mother  rights  to  Skid,  and  she  was  cor- 
dial as  a  stiff,  cramped  little  letter  would  permit. 
I  wrote  to  Skid  suggesting  a  little  vacation  and  asked 
him  to  meet  me  in  Chicago. 

A  short  time  after  I  got  a  telegram  from  him, 
the  longest  in  text  I  had  ever  received  from  any  one : 

"  Please  bring  dogs,  guns  for  hunt  at  Puffer's. 
Since  fall  rains  all  green.  Land  of  Jaggos  ready. 

196 


When  the  Meadow  Lark  Boiled       197 

My  system  needs  ducks.  Pawpaws  soft.  Yellow 
pumpkins  falling,  geese  flying  low,  quail  ripe.  The 
spring  by  summerhouse  calls,  calls,  calls.  S.  P." 

This  was  so  terse,  so  unlike  his  first  letter  that 
I  laughed  aloud. 

It  was  late  in  October  when  I  arrived  at  the  station 
and  found  the  entire  Greyson  family  awaiting  me. 
The  Judge's  handshake  was  warm,  and  he  was  in 
a  cordial  temper.  Mrs.  Greyson  was  glad  to  see 
me,  and  Tootsie,  after  clinging  to  my  hand  with  both 
of  hers  for  a  hesitating  moment,  cast  a  quick  glance 
at  her  mother  and  jumped  up  and  kissed  me.  I 
felt  greatly  flattered,  the  Judge  chuckled,  and  Mrs. 
Greyson  gave  a  tiny  grimace  of  affected  horror. 

And  Skid!  I  somehow  saw  him  last,  although 
the  meeting  with  the  others  was  only  seconds  long. 
His  hand  clung  to  mine,  and  there  was  a  look  in 
his  dark  eyes  that  made  me  glad.  But  his  appear- 
ance shocked  me.  It  is  easy  to  be  mawkish  when  one 
is  enthusiastic;  Skid  was  "elegant,"  as  trim,  as  pol- 
ished in  appearance  as  the  Judge's  gold-headed  ma- 
hogany cane.  I  looked  with  almost  unfriendly 
sharpness  for  some  touch  of  the  swamp,  some  vagrant 
zephyr  of  the  Kankakee  air. 

When  we  stepped  rapidly  down  the  platform  to 
the  carriage  he  was  erect,  easy-mannered  as  Mrs. 
Greyson  and  his  eyes  were  dancing  with  joy. 

We  whipped  up  with  gallant  splendor,  and 
snapped  brightly  through  the  streets  to  the  great 
home.  There  we  had  talked  over  cordial  nothings 


198  At  the  Greysons' 

of  the  vacant  weeks  of  separation,  dined  handsomely 
and  were  a  merry  crowd  till  ten  o'clock  that  night. 
We  had  recitations  by  Tootsie  and  a  funny  tale  by 
Skid,  and  the  Judge  himself  peeled  off  the  last  veil 
of  public  dignity  for  a  rather  wabbly  foot-race  with 
his  daughter  in  the  more  secluded  part  of  the  lawn. 
Just  before  I  was  ready  to  go  to  the  hotel  with 
Skid,  Mrs.  Greyson,  whose  presence  always  tempered 
the  ardor  of  the  company  and  subdued  the  hilarity 
of  her  husband,  sat  down  at  the  piano  and  played  an 
old-fashioned  waltz.  And  the  very  next  thing  I 
saw  was  Tootsie  and  Skid  circling  around  to  the 
music. 

I  can  not  describe  the  ease,  the  grace,  the  poetry 
of  the  movements  of  the  beautiful  pair.      When  I 
came  to,  with  a  mental  jolt,  I  saw  the  Judge  rubbing 
his  gleeful  fists  and  looking  at  me. 

Now  I  was  shaking  hands  with  them  ready  to 
go.  The  Judge  beckoned  me  and  we  went  into  the 
library. 

"What  do  you  think  of  it?"  he  asked,  his  face 
lighted  up. 

"  There's  only  one  way  to  say  it, — in  the  language 
of  the  immortal  Abe  Puffer,  '  I  am  unnoncombobble- 
defustigated  with  the  rasheoshenashun  details.'  "  And 
the  Judge  laughed  the  happiest  and  longest  laugh  I 
had  ever  heard  from  him. 

"  Skid,"  I  asked  at  the  hotel  as  we  sat  for  a  few 
minutes  before  retiring,  "  how  is  the  meadow  lark?  " 

II  Jus'  tabilin',"  he  said  with  glowing  face  and  a 
delightful  fragrance  from  Pufferland. 


When  the  Meadow  Lark  Boiled       199 

After  Skid  had  left  me  and  I  thought  over  the 
events  of  the  day  it  seemed  to  me  that,  as  Skid  once 
had  said,  "  things  was  comin'  purty  fas'."  Though 
in  his  speech  he  still  had  his  falls  from  rectitude, 
yet  when  he  was  at  his  best  I  had  an  uneasy  feeling 
that  he  was  fitting  almost  too  well.  Perhaps  he 
was  imitative  rather  than  original  after  all.  His 
development  from  a  swamp  chrysalis  was  a  little 
too  sudden  and  a  little  too  bright.  But  I  was  glad 
he  had  won  the  affection  and  confidence  of  the  Grey- 
sons.  I  am  sure  there  had  been  no  envious  pang 
in  my  heart  when  I  had  seen  the  great  judge  place 
his  arm  around  Skid's  shoulder  as  they  were  stooping 
to  look  into  the  bird  pens;  there  had  been  no  mean 
feeling  when  I  had  seen  Skid's  hand  fold  over  his 
new  mother's  as  he  stood  by  her  chair.  I  was  sin- 
cere with  myself;  I  had  no  illusions.  I  could  not 
help  feeling  that  Skid  was  growing  not  only  away 
from  himself  but  away  from  all  of  us. 

The  next  morning  Skid  knocked  at  my  door  to 
waken  me. 

"The  train  will  be  four  hours  late,  Colonel — 
accident, — gets  here  at  two  P.M."  So  we  were 
fated  to  stay  over  another  day. 

That  afternoon  we  tried  to  kill  time  amiably.  We 
practised  pistol  shooting;  took  a  ride  on  horseback 
with  the  Judge  and  his  daughter;  reviewed  the  hunt- 
ing dogs;  telegraphed  our  liveryman  to  be  ready  at 
two  the  next  day;  and  passed  the  afternoon  at  the 
Greysons'. 

That  night  at  the  Judge's  office  I  signed  several 


2OO  At  the  Greysons' 

papers,  signed  a  bond  relating  to  guardianship  re- 
quirements, and  finished  all  legal  matters  about  ten 
o'clock.  Skid's  division  of  the  Puffer  estate  was  a 
respectable  amount,  and  I  was  now  his  guardian. 

I  had  asked  the  Judge  whether  he  had  made  any 
discoveries  at  the  Puffer  homestead,  what  his  opinions 
were  as  to  Mrs.  Puffer,  and  what  evidence  he  had 
collected. 

"  It  was  nearly  an  empty-handed  hunt,  Colonel. 
She  disliked  even  to  talk  of  the  dead  woman,  told 
me  less  than  she  did  you,  but  seemed  willing  enough 
to  turn  over  her  rights  to  you.  Her  farm  is  sold, 
the  graveyard  is  reserved,  most  of  the  values  have 
changed  hands  and  she  is  to  take  a  house  down  on 
Jefferson  street,  after  the  holidays.  She  seems  to 
believe  she  is  going  to  be  happy  with  Skid.  I  know 
Skid  will  not  be,  but  I  could  not  tell  her  that.  It 
comes  into  my  mind  continually  that  she  is  holding 
something  back.  You  recall  what  my  wife  said 
about  that? 

"  When  you  go  out,  I  want  you  to  spring  some- 
thing on  her;  startle  her;  make  her  give  up.  If  you 
can  guess  accurately  enough  what  she  has  in  her 
mind,  you  may  flush  her.  I've  been  thinking.  If 
the  dead  woman  out  there  was  my  poor  daughter, 
she  must  have  had  some  trinkets  on.  What  has 
become  of  them?  It  seems  to  my  way  of  thinking 
we  ought  to  secure  two  bits  of  vital  evidence.  Some- 
thing that  will  identify  that  dead  woman,  and  show 
how  she  looked.  My  daughter  had  a  little  open- 
faced  watch  with  a  snapping  blue  diamond  on  the 


When  the  Meadow  Lark  Boiled       201 

back  lid.  She  had  a  ring  too,  but  I  don't  recollect 
how  it  looked.  Of  course  none  of  her  clothes  are 
left.  I  would  not  recognize  them  anyway.  The 
second  thing  is  to  spring  my  daughter's  picture,  we 
have  in  the  back  bedroom  parlor,  the  women's  par- 
lor, and  see  if  Skid  recalls  the  dead  woman  through 
this  likeness." 

I  rose.  He  took  my  hand  and  said  earnestly, 
"  Get  some  evidence,  try  for  the  watch,  anything. 
If  you  get  what  you  go  after,  when  you  return  tele- 
phone me  any  time  of  night.  I'll  come." 

I  returned  to  my  hotel  filled  with  determination 
and  many  schemes  none  of  which  seemed  to  fit  my 
desires.  I  expected  that  Skid  would  be  at  the  Grey- 
sons',  but  I  found  him  waiting  for  me  and  reading. 

"What  are  you  reading,  Skid,  and  what  part  of 
the  paper  do  you  under — that  is,  er — what  do  you 
like  best  in  a  newspaper?" 

"  Colonel,  you  never  have  to  make  any  changes 
in  your  flow  for  my  feelings.  I  always  want  you 
to  say  just  what  you  think.  Will  you?" 

"  Well,  Skid,  I  have  too  blunt  a  way  of  speaking 
my  mind.  I  have  got  into  the  habit  of  going  back 
and  covering  up.  But,  Skid," — I  went  over  and  gave 
him  a  pull  around  the  waist  and  was  astonished  at 
some  iron  muscles  that  met  my  arm — "  I  have  every- 
thing fixed  now.  I'm  your  legal  guardian,  philos- 
opher, treasurer  and  friend.  From  now  on,  as  at 
all  time  in  the  past,  let's  be  square,  candid  and 
friendly  to  each  other.  I'm  your  boss.  Say,  Skid, 
can  you  stand  me  for  a  boss  till  you  are  twenty-one, 


2O2  At  the  Greysons' 

eh?"  He  caught  my  weak  jollity,  and  his  hand 
sought  mine. 

"  I'm  glad,  Colonel,  if  it  hadn't  been  for  you — " 
Then  I  stopped  him  with  my  hand  over  his  mouth. 

"  You  can  look  the  whole  world  in  the  face  now, 
Skid.  You  are  worth  considerable  in  cold  cash. 
To  cut  all  guessing,  my  boy,"  and  I  locked  my  arm 
in  his,  and  walked  as  I  talked,  "the  Judge  and  I 
are  about  to  unravel  several  mysteries  soon.  Wait. 
Don't  guess.  You  have  to  answer  to  society  by  be- 
ing a  good  and  useful  man.  The  starting  post  and 
the  wire  is  where  you  come  in  at.  Run  square,  beat 
out,  take  the  purse.  Have  everybody  who  sees  the 
race  say,  '  Well  done,  sir.'  Skid,  Mrs.  Puffer  has 
something  up  her  sleeve  she  has  not  told  us  yet. 
I  am  going  to  find  out  what,  in  the  next  two  weeks. 
And  what's  more,  I  want  your  help."  Then  we 
bade  each  other  good-night. 


CHAPTER  VII 
TIME  AND  TIDE  WAIT  FOR  NO  MAN 

THE  next  morning  at  nine-thirty  we  were  at  the 
station,  and  saw  the  train  pull  out  just  as  we  got 
there.  It  had  changed  time  just  four  minutes,  and 
we  were  left  to  curse  our  luck.  So  far  in  my  life 
as  a  business  man  I  have  not  worked  out  any  philos- 
ophy as  to  the  real  meaning  of  missing  a  train.  I 
have  never  found  any  one  to  blame  for  the  miscon- 
nection.  I  have  never  found  adequate  language  to 
represent  the  excited  emotions  on  display  when  "  one 
misses  the  train."  Trains  missed  are  always  the 
ones  that  are  most  vitally  important  for  your  exist- 
ence at  the  time. 

Neither  have  I  seen  one  of  these  escaping,  demon- 
ish  trains  that  did  not  always  scream  or  puff  with  a 
malignity  never  found  in  other  trains.  I  might  say 
in  confidence  that  I  have  taken  after  these  malignant 
trains  and  tried  to  run  them  down.  I  have  reached 
them,  thrown  my  valise  (one  time)  on  the  back 
platform  and  then  tried  to  jerk  the  breath  out  of 
the  monster.  But  as  yet  I  have  always  had  to  tele- 
graph to  the  next  station  to  intercept  a  valise,  and 
I  do  not  remember  now  that  I  ever  disturbed  the 

203 


204  At  the  Greysons' 

equanimity  or  screaming  savageness  of  any  trains  I 
missed  and  almost  caught. 

There  are  some  sorrows  and  some  passions  that 
one  learns  to  endure;  which  after  a  certain  time, 
one  may  almost  smile  at.  But  time  and  age  have 
no  charms  or  soothing  touch  for  a  missed  train  that 
can  palliate  the  deep  damnation  of  its  taking 
off. 

Though  only  one  single  elemental  passion  pos- 
sessed me  when  the  smoke  twiddled  its  fingers  in 
my  face,  though  I  glared  and  wanted  a  tongue  that 
could  utter  the  thoughts  that  arose  in  me,  I  looked 
at  Skid.  Here  was  virgin  soil,  and  he  had  never 
missed  a  train. 

I  managed  to  choke  out,  "  Skid,  what  do  you 
think?" 

He  smiled.  "  I'd  like  to  crack  it  just  behind  the 
ears."  A  great  peace  fell  on  me.  I  knew  what 
cracking  a  rabbit  just  behind  the  ears  meant. 

We  returned  to  the  hotel.  We  had  wisely  sent 
our  baggage  ahead,  and  it  was  all  on  the  missed 
train  gayly  cavorting  down  to  the  wilds.  It  was 
a  very  pleasant  situation.  The  hotel  baggageman 
saw  us  enter  the  hotel  and  stared  at  us. 

"  Sorry  you  walked,  gentlemen,  here's  your  tickets. 
I  checked  everything  through  for  you.  I  meant 
to  tell  you  time  had  been  changed  on  the  Tip-up 
last  Sunday.  Clerk  ought  to  have  told  you,  he's 
new  though."  It  is  such  afterclaps  from  baggage- 
men that  induce  much  of  the  darkest  criminality.  In 


V 

Time  and  Tide  Wait  for  No  Man     205 

our  little  parlor  we  got  level  with  ordinary  conven- 
tions before  noon. 

An  hour  later,  throwing  off  my  depression,  I  said 
cheerily,  "  Oh,  what's  the  use  anyway,  Skid?  " 

"  That's  just  what  mother  said  to  me  one  time. 
I  was  churning  with  our  old  standup  churn.  The 
butter  would  come  to  pinheads,  but  the  cream  was 
so  cold,  or  so  hot,  or  so  contrary,  that  it  bucked  and 
refused  to  gather. 

"  *  Keep  on  stompin'  Skid,  it'll  come  sooner  or 
later,'  Mom  said. 

"  But  I  had  stomped  and  stomped  and  stomped. 

"  4  Mom,'  I  said,  '  put  in  some  cold  water  er  hot 
water  er  sothin',  it's  buckin'  worse'n  a  broncho.' 

"  Well,  I  sat  down  wearily  on  the  doorsteps.  Mom 
went  to  the  tea  kettle  for  some  hot  water,  monkeyed 
around  the  stove  a  little,  and  when  she  was  about 
to  dash  some  scalding  water  in  the  churn  our  old 
cat  jumped  out  calcimined  with  pinhead  butter.  She 
had  just  fallen  in,  when  our  backs  were  turned. 
Mom  set  the  tea  kettle  back  and  stared  at  the  cat, 
which  was  joyfully  licking  that  pinhead  butter  from 
her  coat. 

"  '  Mom,'  said  I,  *  shall  I  jus'  keep  on  stompin'?  ' 

"  *  Oh  lord-amighty  Skid,  whut's  the  use,  the  but- 
ter's mos'ly  on  the  cat.' ' 

Later  we  got  to  talking  about  Tootsie.  I  asked 
my  protege  if  she  was  selfish.  He  grew  enthusiastic 
and  told  of  her  good  deeds.  She  had  given  up 
her  drawing,  her  music  lessons  in  part,  just  to  teach 
him.  She  had  sat  up  one  whole  night  when  her 


206  At  the  Greysons' 

mother  was  ill  giving  hour  medicine  while  the  nurse 
slept.  She  was  the  best  girl,  the  squarest  girl,  the 
most  beautiful  girl!  He  certainly  was  the  most 
handsome  being  imaginable  when  wrought  up  with 
the  virtues  and  excellencies  of  Tootsie  Greyson. 

'  Yes,  yes,  Skid,  I  know  all  that.  But  what 
are  her  failings?  She's  human.  What  are  her 
faults?  Candid  now,  you  remember  we  are  to  be 
square." 

I  expected  him  to  charge  full-head,  but  he  had 
gone  his  length.  A  quizzical  smile,  a  drawing  close 
of  the  eyelids,  a  soft  pulling  of  the  left  lobe  of  his 
ear,  a  habit  Tootsie  had  not  yet  killed,  because  she 
had  never  seen  it,  and  he  said  in  a  quiet  judicial 
way,  "Oh!  of  course  she  swears  sometimes  for  re- 
lief, of  course  just  a  little  thing  like  that." 

I  was  more  surprised  than  amused. 

For  fear  that  he  would  not  proceed  I  said  with 
a  mean,  significant  sniff,  "  I  thought  as  much." 

But  Skid  was  wise  beyond  his  years,  and  not  easily 
dispossessed  by  artifices  so  easy  to  read  as  mine. 

"  She  was  going  to  a  picnic  at  Delphi  one  day 
and  found  at  the  last  quarter  of  an  hour  that  the 
train  had  changed  time.  She  had  about  half  enough 
time  to  primp.  I  heard  her  shooting  around  her 
room  getting  ready.  She  did  not  call  Mary  to  help 
her,  because  Mary  was  born  tired  and  thinks  slower 
than  she  works.  So  Tootsie  flew  into  her  dresses 
and  ribbons  and  things.  She  was  just  ripping  into 
them.  Suddenly  I  heard  a  sharp  snap.  Something 
had  broken. 


Time  and  Tide  Wait  for  No  Man     207 

"  '  Gosh-all-blimmity,  thunderation,  Tom  Walker 
and — Texas !  Sk-i-d  ?  '  she  called. 

"  I  rushed  in.  I  found  her  sitting  on  the  rug 
with  her  knees  cocked  up,  half  dressed,  putting  on 
her  shoes.  She  held  up  the  broken  string  in  one 
hand  and  the  shoe  in  the  other.  She  looked  more 
vexed  than  I  ever  saw  her  before.  Suddenly  she 
bounced  up,  and  looking  as  much  like  our  Irish  foot- 
man as  possible  and  drawing  down  her  upper  lip 
long,  she  flung  her  hand  to  her  forehead,  struck  an 
attitude  and  said,  '  Yer  honor,  thuh  korridge  waits 
at  thuh  door,  sor.' 

"  I  knew  where  I  came  in.  I  darted  to  her  shoe 
box  in  her  closet,  yanked  a  shoestring  out,  grabbed 
the  shoe,  snipped  in  a  new  string  and  bounced  out 
the  door  and  waited. 

"  A  minute  later  I  heard  her  snap  her  parasol 
from  her  dressing  case  and  shout,  '  Thuh  worr-rr-ld 
is  me-ine.' 

"Then  she  stampeded  out  of  the  room,  flew  at 
me,  kissed  me,  give  my  cheek  a  spat  and  raced  to 
the  door.  She  leaped  into  the  carriage  and  as  she 
settled  said,  '  A  shoe,  a  shoo !  ado,  adieu.' 

"  Then  the  coachman  loped  his  horses  and  she  got 
to  Delphi  on  time. 

"  Then  she  has  funny  tantrums  once  in  a  while. 
One  night  about  ten  o'clock  when  everything  was 
still,  Mrs.  Greyson  doing  embroidery,  the  Judge 
reading,  and  I, — I  forget  what  I  was  doing.  We 
had  missed  Toot  for  half  an  hour.  Suddenly  when 
everything  was  as  still  as  death,  the  hall  door  that 


208  At  the  Greysons' 

leads  to  the  back  opened,  and  in  came  Toot,  painted 
white  as  chalk  in  her  mother's  nightie,  and  a  wisp 
of  hay  around  her  head  looking  like  a  ghost  or 
marble  statue.  She  looked  like  death.  Then  she 
opened  her  mouth  and  broke  out  this  way: 

'  The  crumblin'  tewmstone,  the  gojus  musaleum, 
the  marble  shafts  o'  granit  all  bear  the  stinkin'  desire 
'ithin  us, — er — the  marble  shafts  o'  granit,  marble 
shafts  o' — say  Skid,  how  in  thunder  does  it  go? 
Skoot  to  the  house  fer  them  Hunderd  Selexuns  an' 
ef  yer  mother  comes  snoopin'  roun'  tell  'er  we  want 
it  fer  a  nest  aig.' 

"Then  she  sailed  away.  Mrs.  Greyson  laughed 
till  she  cried  and  the  Judge  just  roared.  She  had 
remembered  my  telling  about  building  the  ash- 
hopper." 

At  one  o'clock,  while  Skid  and  I  were  seated  with 
the  commercial  travelers  under  the  long  veranda 
wing  of  the  hotel  wondering  what  we  should  do, 
the  Greyson  carriage  dashed  up  to  us  with  Tootsie 
Greyson  alone  in  it.  She  ran  down  to  us  in  a  flutter 
of  excitement  and  before  we  knew  had  Skid  half- 
way to  the  carriage,  talking  volubly,  as  careless  of 
conventions  and  external  circumstances  as  a  child. 

"Come;  hurry.  We  have  just  received  a  tele- 
gram from  Alice  and  she  will  be  here  on  the  flyer. 
Her  message  was  delayed.  Come,  uncle.  We  shall 
just  have  time  if  we  run  the  horses  like  a  doctor." 

And  before  we  had  time  to  resist  or  protest  she 
had  us  in  the  vehicle,  and  the  horses  were  on  a 
gallop  to  the  railroad  station. 


Time  and  Tide  Wait  for  No  Man     209 

The  train  had  just  come  in  as  we  reached  the  station. 
Tootsie,  who  had  run  ahead,  jumped  out  and  spied 
Alice  in  the  hurrying  throng,  and  was  locked  around 
her  neck  as  we  came  up.  Alice  received  me  cor- 
dially. Then  Tootsie,  who  for  months  had  care- 
fully withheld  the  evolution  of  Skid  from  her  letters 
to  Alice,  pulled  her  around  to  him. 

I  had  never  seen  the  lad  more  charmingly  de- 
lighted. Alice  turned  to  him,  stared,  gasped  and 
then  burst  out  laughing  in  his  face.  I  was  indig- 
nant. Tootsie  was  pale  with  anger.  Skid  was 
the  first  to  recover.  A  haughty  look  shot  through 
his  face,  his  spine  straightened,  and  then  he  offered 
her  his  arm.  As  she  lightly  touched  his  sleeve  a 
deep  look  of  mortification  reddened  her  face.  She 
tried  to  say  something,  but  the  well-poised  girl  could 
not  find  her  tongue.  Tootsie  pulled  Skid  away,  and 
they,  not  saying  a  word,  walked  rapidly  to  the 
carriage. 

As  I  piloted  Alice  she  grew  composed.  We  seated 
ourselves,  and  the  carriage  moved  off. 

She  said,  almost  with  serenity,  "  I  am  not  feeling 
well  to-day." 

"  Neither  am  I,"  I  answered. 

Alice  looked  up  quickly,  but  I  was  sure  I  looked 
too  honest  for  her.  I  asked  her  about  her  illness, 
the  incidents  of  her  journey,  made  other  conversa- 
tion, and  seemed  reasonably  polite.  What  had  been 
in  her  mind,  anyway?  I  asked  myself.  I  set  out 
to  discover  the  reason  of  her  rudeness. 

She  said  with  about  as  much  animation  as  a  woman 


2io  At  the  Greysons' 

paying  her  carfare,  "  Of  course,  Colonel  French, 
you'll  understand." 

I  looked  as  intelligent  as  I  could. 

"  Of  course  I  saw — Skid — that  is  what  you  call 
him, — I  met  him  a  few  times  out  there,  the  oddest, 
most  imperturbable  misfit  I  ever  saw.  Some  of 
his  old  aspects, — such  as  sitting  with  muddy  red 
feet  on  that  fuzzy  old  horse  in  his  barnyard,  with 
his  yellow  funnel  hat, — and  sitting  in  the  wagon 
looking  at  his  beautiful  shoes  the  morning  he  left, 
sullenly  biting  his  tongue, — I  saw  those  the  instant 
I  looked  at  him.  I  burst  out  laughing  with  most 
unintentionally  bad  manners.  I  was  too  sincere  for 
my  training.  I  started  to  apologize  as  I  saw  Toot- 
sie  look  so  hurt.  It  checked  my  apology  to  see  the 
well-bred  fling  of  contempt  in  his  face  as  he  offered 
me  his  arm.  Then  I  could  not  apologize  without 
making  it  worse.  You  came  to  my  rescue,  and  here 
we  are  talking  like  old  friends." 

Our  tremendous  length  of  friendship  could  be 
measured  by  minutes. 

There  was  an  ominous  silence  on  the  back  seat. 

"  Oh,  it  will  be  easily  explained  to  Skid,"  I  said. 
"  He  sees  the  humor  in  almost  anything.  The  mo- 
ment you  tell  him  you  were  looking  at  the  old  Skid 
instead  of  the  new,  he  will  be  laughing  with  you. 
It  is  a  very  small  thing,  Miss  Alice,  at  its  worst. 
I  suppose  Tootsie  has  not  explained  so  very  much 
about  him?" 

"  I  fear  she  got  more  than  she  deserved  for  that," 
said  Alice. 


Time  and  Tide  Wait  for  No  Man    211 

An  hour  later  at  the  Greysons'  Skid  rose  with 
me  to  go.  I  had  been  concocting  an  excuse  that 
would  pass  any  suspicion.  Mrs.  Greyson  saw  the 
restraint  on  Tootsie,  who  would  not  rise  to  the  occa- 
sion. Alice  and  I  were  doing  our  best  to  disperse 
the  lowering  fogs  that  threatened  the  general  dis- 
course. Tootsie  would  not  hear  of  both  of  us  going. 
She  revived  suddenly.  Skid  succumbed  to  her  per- 
suasions. Promising  to  pass  an  hour  with  them 
after  dinner  I  left,  wondering  about  his  fate  among 
the  warring  elements. 

Skid  came  to  my  room  a  short  time  after. 

"  Colonel,  I've  made  the  tallest  break  in  my  life. 
'  I'm  kilt,'  as  Abe  Puffer  used  to  say."  He  looked 
more  miserable  than  his  words.  From  his  version  of 
what  happened  after  I  left  I  filled  in  the  details,  and 
the  complete  picture  shocked  me  with  its  harsh  lines. 

"  Mr.  Puffer,"  Alice  had  said.  This  was  too  much 
for  Tootsie  Greyson,  and  she  had  laughed  a  long  dis- 
concerting peal. 

Alice  straightened  up,  sat  primly  aggressive  and 
went  on.  "  I  might  explain  to  you  if  you  noticed 
it, — this  afternoon  at  the  station — for  a  moment — " 
Then  Alice  was  thrown,  horse  and  rider,  by  the  un- 
sympathetic countenance  of  scorn,  the  superior  sniff 
of  Tootsie  and  the  cold  reticence  of  the  young  man 
himself. 

She  signaled  in  a  woman's  way  that  she  would 
like  Tootsie  Greyson  to  leave  the  room,  and  not 
doubting  that  Tootsie  would  go,  she  proceeded  again, 
"  You  see,  Mr. — er — Skid,  I  believe  they  call  you, 


212  At  the  Greysons' 

— we  have  known  each  other  for  a  long  time.  You 
seem  a  pupil  of  mine  and  if  you — "  Alice  stopped 
surprised.  Tootsie  had  risen  as  if  to  leave  the 
room,  but  Skid  was  her  pupil,  and  it  seemed  pre- 
posterous that  Alice  should  claim  him  and  have  any- 
thing to  say  to  him  of  such  delicate  nature  that  it 
was  necessary  for  Tootsie  to  take  to  flight.  She 
glanced  at  Skid,  who  seemed  to  sniff  trouble  and 
looked  as  if  he  needed  sympathy. 

Tootsie  impulsively  turned,  perched  herself  on  one 
of  his  knees  and  began  to  talk  nonsense  to  him  to 
relieve  the  tension.  Skid  had  held  the  same  maidenly 
burden  a  thousand  times;  that  was  nothing  unusual. 
But  Alice  rose  and  glared.  Tootsie  saw  nothing 
but  Skid's  abashed  face.  He  twisted  uneasily,  then 
as  Tootsie  Greyson  saw  his  perplexed  look,  she 
caught  his  cheek  in  one  of  her  hands  and  turned  his 
face  around  to  her.  Then  he  began  to  push  the  sitter 
from  his  knee.  He  had  seen  that  same  look  on 
Alice's  face  before. 

"Toot  Greyson,  haven't  you  any  sense?"  Skid 
tried  to  rise,  but,  as  he  said,  he  was  frozen.  Tootsie 
whirled  round  on  her  sister,  amazed  past  all  compre- 
hension. 

"  Tootsie,"  said  Alice,  "  I  wished  to  apologize  for 
my  unintentional  rudeness  while  at  the  railroad  sta- 
tion, but  after  seeing  your  actions  I  suggest  you  go 
out  to  mother.  I  am  not  at  all  sure  after  what 
I  have  just  seen  that  an  apology  with  you  would  be 
understood,  and  I  am  not  at  all  sure  now  that  any 
other  is — needed." 


Time  and  Tide  Wait  for  No  Man     213 

"I  understood  that,  Colonel,"  Skid  said  to  me; 
"  it  cut  just  as  clean  as  a  butchering  knife  at  hog- 
killing  time.  I  felt  sure  there  was  a  mistake  all 
around,  but  I  had  not  corraled  it  yet.  But  I  felt 
something  hot  rise  up  in  me,  and  the  ice  melted.  I 
made  for  the  hall  and  said  kind  of  quiet: 

"  '  I  suggest  that  both  of  you  go  out  to  mother  and 
that  Miss  Alice  go  first.'  Then  I  tramped  out." 

Tootsie  Greyson  at  a  later  day  gave  me  the  rest 
of  the  scene  after  Skid  had  left. 

"  It's  almost  funny  now,  uncle,  but  it  was  dread- 
fully serious  then.  When  Skid  slammed  the  door, 
Alice  hesitated,  looked  frustrated  and  forgot  her  own 
transgressions  thinking  of  mine. 

"  But  I  was  ashamed  and  hurt,  and  was  thinking 
more  of  Skid  than  I  was  of  her  insult.  '  Alice,'  I 
cried  out,  '  that  is  twice  you  forgot  your  manners 
this  afternoon.'  Well,  she  was  pretty  angry.  Alice 
has  been  the  only  one  of  the  family  that  had  ever 
submerged  me,  but  I  had  been  flying  myself  for 
several  months  then. 

" '  Oh,  that  is  what  you  call  manners,'  she  said — 
'  sitting  on  a  young  man's  knees.  I  was  rude  at 
the  station,  but  I  am  not  shameless.' 

"  That  was  the  hottest  fire  that  has  ever  been 
poured  over  my  head.  I  said,  '  Alice,  you  must  need 
paregoric  bad.' 

"'You  shameless  Toot  Greyson!'  she  flamed. 
We  heard  a  rustle,  and  there  stood  mother  in  the 
door.  I  have  never  seen  mother  look  that  way 
before  or  since. 


214  At  the  Greysons' 

'  Are  these — these — my  daughters  ?  '  There 
was  heartbreak  in  mother's  look.  I  wanted  to 
scream  and  fly  into  her  arms.  Alice  turned  paler 
than  I  ever  saw  her  before.  And  mad  as  we  had 
been,  we  both  stood  there  sick  at  heart. 

"  *  Tootsie,  you  may  explain.' 

"  Choked  as  I  was,  I  had  enough  words  to  begin. 
'  This  afternoon  we  were  all  so  happy  to  meet  her 
at  the  depot,  everything  was  all  right  till  she  came 
to  Skid.  He  put  out  his  hand,  she  stared  at  him, 
and  laughed  out  loud  right  in  his  face.  She  took 
the  Colonel's  arm  and  sat  up  proud  and  superior  on 
the  front  seat.  Here  in  the  parlor  a  moment  since 
she  said  she  wished  to  have  a  private  conference  with 
Skid.  I  started  to  go  out  because  Alice  always  has 
made  me  her  servant.  I  saw  how  miserable  Skid 
looked,  so  offended,  so  hurt,  and  I  went  over  and 
began  to  plague  him  and  somehow  ease  him  up.  His 
face  all  at  once  looked  as  if  he  was  going  to — 
faint.  I  followed  his  eyes  and  there  was  Alice! 
standing  there  like  a  gorgon  moving  her  jaw. 
Then  I  heard,  "  Toot  Greyson,  haven't  you  got  any 
sense?'" 

"  Alice  had  started  to  break  in  once  or  twice,  but 
a  look  from  mother  silenced  her. 

"  *  She's  insulted  Skid;  she's  insulted  me;  and  she 
has  not  apologized.'      And  then,  being  through,  I 
sat  down  and  commenced  to  cry. 
'  Alice ! '  mother  demanded. 

"  And  then  Alice,  who  had  recovered  her  wits 
and  some  anger,  commenced  to  t  explain  her  side  of 


Time  and  Tide  Wait  for  No  Man     215 

the  case.  '  I  asked  her,'  Alice  said,  '  in  a  lady-like 
way  to  leave  me  a  minute  with  this  Mr. — Skid.  I 
had  unintentionally  laughed  as  we  were  about  to 
shake  hands  at  the  station.  You  remember,  mother, 
I  told  you  how  he  looked  and  talked,  and  that  vision 
on  the  old  hairy  horse,  with  black  swamp  mud  on 
his  feet.  The  very  instant  that  I  ought  to  have 
felt  proud  of  him  at  the  depot,  I  saw  him  looking 
so  disreputable  and  ignorant  and  everything  out  there 
in  the  swamp  that  I  burst  out  laughing.  I  could 
have  mended  it  and  turned  it  off  in  a  second,  but 
Tootsie  looked  as  if  the  world  had  come  to  an 
end.' 

"  And  then  I  found  out  what  the  trouble  was, 
uncle,  for  Alice  went  on,  '  Then  she  jumped  on  this 
young  man's  knees,  pulled  his  face  around,  began  to 
talk  baby  talk,  and  they  looked  like  two  brazen  fools 
spooning  in  public.  And  would  your  own  flesh  and 
blood,  mother,  stand  that?'  Mother  and  I  saw  the 
trouble  at  a  flash. 

"  '  Is  that  all,  Alice?  '  for  she  had  stopped. 

"  '  All !  all !  all ! '  Alice  almost  screamed,  looking 
at  mother  as  if  mother  had  suddenly  gone  daft. 
Mother's  face  was  not  so  hard  now,  but  she  was  still 
dangerous. 

"  *  Alice,  have  you  never  done  worse? ' 

"  I  think  that  question  was  a  chance  shot  of 
mother's.  Alice  colored  forty  ways  for  Sundays. 
Alice  did  not  know  whether  mother  meant  more  or 
even  what  she  said.  She  did  not  know  whether 
mother  had  heard  about  the  tool-bench  affair.  But 


216  At  the  Greysons' 

Alice  said  evenly  after  a  thought  or  two,  *  Mother, 
I  could  not  do  a  thing  like  that' 

"  Mother  looked  a  little  relieved.  Then  the  look 
of  heartbreak  and  shame  came  back  to  her  face. 

"  '  The  rest,  Alice,'  I  called. 

"  As  if  she  had  forgotten,  Alice  caught  herself 
up  and  went  on.  '  I  said,  "  I  suggest  you  go  out  to 
mother,  Tootsie."  Skid  got  up  like  one  who  is  per- 
fect master  of  himself,  and  said  smilingly,  as  if  we 
were  both  children,  "  I  suggest  both  of  you  go  out 
to  mother,  and  Alice  might  go  first."  He  put  on 
his  hat  and  left.' 

"  Then  mother  spoke.  '  Skid  Puffer,  a  poor  neg- 
lected boy  of  the  marshes,  a  member  of  our  family, 
Tootsie's  pupil  and  brother,  has  shown  himself  im- 
measurably superior  to  either  of  you.  He  acted  like 
a  gentleman;  you  two  like  street  brats.  Now  go  to 
your  rooms  and  apologize,  or  you  are  no  daughters 
of  mine.' 

"  Goodness !  uncle,  that  was  a  sharp  stroke  of 
lightning  just  that  moment.  Like  criminals,  Alice 
and  I  climbed  the  stairs." 

Returning  to  Skid :  I  saw  that  he  was  restless  with 
apprehension,  regret  and  suspense.  I  thought  my 
best  means  to  lift  his  burden  was  to  speak  lightly. 

"  You  did  perfectly  right,  Skid.  I'm  charmed 
with  you.  Those  lovely  Greyson  girls  will  hear  from 
their  mother  before  the  sun  sets.  When  two  well- 
bred  girls  get  to  quarreling  about  a  young  gentleman, 
and  he  present  in  the  fray,  it's  high  time  for  the 
taller  timber.  Yes,  my  boy,  you  did  just  right.  If 


Time  and  Tide  Wait  for  No  Man     217 

you  had  shown  a  red  temper  everything  would  have 
been  different.  Come;  we  will  patch  up  the 
fences." 

We  secured  the  most  ravishing  bouquet  we  could 
buy,  then  both  labored  over  an  apology,  and  this  is 
what  we  wrought: 

"My  dear  new  sisters:  Once  in  a  while  children 
forget  themselves  in  the  ardor  of  their  amusements, 
and  a  little  black  cloud  shuts  out  the  sunshine  for  a 
little  while.  I  forgot  myself  to-day;  I  apologize; 
won't  all  of  you  forgive  me? 

"SKID." 

We  hired  a  messenger  and  sent  it.  After  a  time 
the  telephone  rang.  Skid  Puffer  was  wanted.  When 
he  came  back  he  said  to  me, 

"  Tootsie." 

"And  what?" 

"  Said  she  was  crying.   Every  word." 

"A  complete  and  full  apology,  Skid.  Stand  by 
her." 

"Suppose  Alice  will  call  me  up,  Colonel?" 

"  Never,"  I  said  in  full  conviction. 

In  due  time  I  was  called  to  the  telephone,  and 
Mrs.  Greyson's  voice  asked  calmly  if  I  would  permit 
Skid  to  come  down.  Skid  looked  a  little  unnerved 
when  I  reported  to  him. 

"Was  that  all  she  said?  "  he  said  anxiously. 

"  Yes,  I  feel  sure  you  have  won  out  nobly,  my 
dear  boy.  Don't  delay."  And  Skid  started  out. 


2i 8  At  the  Greysons' 

In  an  hour  he  returned  happy,  his  face  aglow. 
I  felt  sure  his  description  of  the  affair  was  a  trifle 
exaggerated  by  his  humorous  instincts. 

"  Mrs.  Greyson  herself  opened  the  door,"  he  told 
me.  "  Guess  she  was  looking  for  me  at  the  window. 
She  took  me  in  the  parlor,  and  I  felt  better  when  I 
saw  how  her  face  was.  The  next  thing  I  said  was, 
1  I'm  so  sorry,  mother.' 

"  '  For  what,  my  son? '     She  did  look  surprised. 

"  '  Why,  for  being  so,  so  unmannerly  this  after- 
noon.' And  before  I  knew  where  I  was  at,  she  had 
me  tight  in  her  arms. 

"  Then  she  said  next,  4  Sit  down,  son !  '  Of  course 
I  sat  and  wondered  what  would  be  next  move. 

"  '  Alice ! '  she  called.  I  heard  Alice  come  trip- 
ping down  the  stairway;  she  came  in  just  as  composed 
as  those  white  peacocks.  Mother  just  stood  there 
and  waited. 

"  Then  Alice,  just  as  easy  as  if  she  were  going  to 
market,  said,  '  This  afternoon,  Skid,  at  the  station 
when  I  took  your  hand  I  looked  over  your  head 
after  the  fiist  glance  and  saw  you  on  that  old  bony 
mare  in  the  barnyard  out  at  your  home.  The  vision 
was  so  different  from  what  I  saw  before  me,  I 
could  not  help  smiling  right  out  loud  without  a 
single  thought  of  offense.  You  easily  understand 
it  now?  When  I  came  home  and  saw  Tootsie  sitting 
in  your  lap,  I  thought  of  you  as  a  stranger.  It 
looked  so  brazen  and  defiant  that  I  just  lost  my 
temper  as  other  people  do  sometimes  and  spoke  my 
mind.  Now  if  you  will  overlook  the  little  misunder- 


Time  and  Tide  Wait  for  No  Man     219 

standing  we  will  play  together  as  nice  little  children 
should.' 

"  I  was  about  to  take  her  hand  she  was  holding 
out,  when  mother  interfered  and  said,  '  Wait.' 

"  Then  she  was  about  to  call  Tootsie  when  who 
should  appear  with  her  face  around  the  door  jamb 
but  Toots  herself,  saying,  '  I  am  so  glad  the  birds 
are  singing  after  the  storm.' 

"  '  Tootsie,  apologize  to  Skid,'  and  mother's  lips 
shut  pretty  severe. 

"  '  Why,  I  have  already,  mother  dear,'  said  Toot- 
sie, looking  to  me  for  further  testimony. 

"  '  She  has,  mother,'  said  I,  looking  as  comfortable 
as  I  could. 

"  Well,  that  took  the  wind  out  of  mother's  sails 
and  she  sat  down  with  a  little  grunt.  She  must 
have  wondered  how  we  managed  it,  especially  if  she 
sat  by  the  window  watching  for  me.  But  there  was 
a  soft  light  in  her  face  as  she  came  over  and  kissed 
me  just  as  she  always  does.  I  felt  better.  Then 
Tootsie,  looking  a  little  ashamed  about  something, 
came  up  and  kissed  me  like  a  sister,  whispering, 
'  Skid,  I'm  so  sorry, — the  villain  is  discover-r-ed.' 

"  '  Now,  Alice,'  said  mother.  Gosh-all-blimmity, 
Colonel,  that  took  grit.  Talk  about  missing  trains, 
burning  limekilns,  roasting  at  the  stake  and — and 
hornets.  Shucks!  They  are  nothing.  Grit?  Alice 
knew  she  was  up  against  it  good  and  hard,  Colonel, 
but  think  of  me-e.  I  had  to  do  it  and  she's  different 
from  Tootsie.  Besides,  I  remembered  the  last  time. 
She  just  stood  there  rosy  and  turning  white  and  look- 


22O  At  the  Greysons' 

ing  cryey,  and  kind  of  caught  her  breath  as  I  stepped 
out  brazen  as  a  swamp  bumble-bee,  on  its  first  fly 
out  of  the  nest,  but  I  did  not  dare  to  say  a  word. 
Alice  kind  of  shuffled  out  a  henstep  or  so  and  seemed 
to  have  lost  all  her  nerve. 

"  Colonel,  honest,  she  looked  just  that  way  when — 
oh,  you  know  when — when  I  flew  up  and, — the  roses, 
milk  and  gold  business?" — I  remembered. — 
"  Mother  did  not  hurry  us  a  bit.  Things  were  coming 
at  an  Ole  Oleson  gait  for  Alice,  anyway.  I  thought 
of  old  Squire  Puffer's  words :  '  Sh'  is  a  bran'  to  be 
snatched  from  the  burnin','  and — yes,  just  while  she 
was  looking  down  her  cheeks  I  got  after  the  brand. 

"  She  looked  me  square  in  the  eyes,  Colonel,  when 
our  lips  touched  and  her  eyes  swam.  Shucks !  Kiss- 
ing with  her  sticks." 

I  believe  I  was  as  happy  as  he  that  the  strong 
gale  which  filled  the  Greyson  sails  had  died  down 
to  a  redolent  zephyr. 

Late  in  the  afternoon  Judge  Greyson  stopped  at 
the  hotel  and  handed  me  an  envelope  containing  six 
theater  tickets.  Skid  and  I  promised  to  be  ready 
at  a  quarter  of  eight  to  walk  with  the  family  to  the 
opera  house. 

"What  will  we  do  about  clothes,  Colonel?  "  asked 
Skid  earnestly.  I  was  surprised. 

"Clothes,  Skid?"  He  looked  a  trifle  embar- 
rassed. 

"  Why,  yes.  The  last  time  we  went  we  traveled 
in  state,  both  the  Judge  and  I  wore  evening  dress, — 
beavers,  canes  and  bouquets." 


Time  and  Tide  Wait  for  No  Man     221 

"  Oh,  Rome !     Has  it  come  to  this?  " 

"  You  see,  Colonel,  when  the  Greyson  carriage 
flourishes  up  to  the  opera  house  entrance  the  people 
from  the  stage  manager  down  to  the  program  boys 
know  it.  Then  the  papers  next  day  tell  how  the 
ladies  were  dressed,  and  that  the  learned  Justice 
Greyson  was  accompanied  by  so-and-so.  In  this  case 
it  will  be,  let's  see, — by  the  illustrious  Colonel  French 
of  the  American  legation,  er  the  multi-millionaire 
sassidge  maker  from  Shaycoggo.  I've  got  to  go 
out  to  the  house  for  my  finery,  Colonel." 

"It's  a  warm  evening,  Skid;  why  not  go  in  our 
shirt  sleeves?" 

"  That's  so ;  or  in  our  bare  feet.  Everybody  would 
have  their  opera  glasses  on  us." 

"  That  might  do,  Skid.  Then  we  might  get  our 
pictures  in  the  society  columns  and  be  mentioned  as 
the  distinguishable  swamp  angels  from  the  kingdom 
of  Puffer,  eh?" 

After  Skid  had  gone  I  went  to  my  trunk  and 
began  to  array  myself  in  my  fine  linen.  Suddenly 
I  stopped  staring  the  mirror  out  of  countenance. 
I  thought:  "  Skid  will  tell  them  of  my  shortcomings 
as  to  the  conventional  attire.  Then  they  will  modify 
their  own."  I  was  embarrassed  with  the  situation. 
I  couldn't  well  'phone  the  family  on  such  a  matter. 
I  imagined  myself  spick  and  span  in  evening  attire, 
the  Judge  in  his  business  clothes.  Ah,  blessed  solu- 
tion! I  would  call  Skid.  But  why  had  he  gone 
to  array  himself  like  Solomon  if  he  knew  I  was  to 
mix  in  like  a  restaurant  waiter? 


222  At  the  Greysons' 

When  scouring  my  brain  I  got  to  wondering  how 
Skid  would  look  in  a  dress  suit  with  the  dainty  Toot- 
sie  Greyson  by  his  side.  I  compressed  myself  and 
got  into  those  uneasy  clothes.  In  about  an  hour, 
being  completely  disguised,  I  sat  down  for  a  final 
survey  when  Skid  walked  in.  His  magical  eyes 
glowed  with  complimentary  lights.  He  said  in  the 
most  matter-of-fact  tone,  "  Yer  the  perfec'  image  of 
a  Chicago  sassidge  maker.  Yer  safte."  I  chuckled 
at  his  breath  of  swamp  air. 

"  Colonel,  you  will  find  the  Greyson  foray  coming 
along  in  all  their  glories  pretty  soon.  Be  good  and 
happy;  if  you  just  can't  be  good  naturally,  try  to 
increase  your  happiness  by  walking  with  Tootsie." 

I  was  surprised.  He  was  alert  and  a  little  too 
ardent. 

"  How  are  you  going  to  manage  to  pair  off  with 
Alice,  Skid?" 

"  My  fondest  hopes  are  that  the  pairing  will  look 
just  as  natural  as — as  death."  I  saw  a  handsome 
gentleman  before  me  in  a  silk  hat,  twiddling  a  shin- 
ing, flexible  cane  which  he  seemed  to  manage 
naturally.  I  learned  long  afterwards  that  Alice 
with  perfect  naturalness  had  asked  Skid  to  accom- 
pany her,  as  she  had  something  important  to  tell 
him.  I  asked  on  a  later  day  if  he  cared  to  tell  me 
what  the  important  matter  was.  He  looked  half 
startled  for  a  moment,  then  said: 

"  I  think  she  must  have  forgotten  what  it  was,  or 
I  have." 


CHAPTER  VIII 

THE  MORTAL  ILLNESS  OF  ALICE 
GREYSON 

WITH  proper  punctuality,  especially  for  a  theater 
party  of  six,  we  were  on  our  way  to  the  opera  house, 
under  the  full  refulgence  of  a  steadily  gazing  moon. 
The  night  was  fit  for  treason,  stratagems  and  ladies' 
wiles.  Judge  Greyson  and  myself  walked  behind, 
cordially  talking  about  nothing;  Mrs.  Greyson  and 
her  youngest  daughter,  rather  preoccupied  or  listen- 
ing, were  ahead  of  us,  and  Alice  and  Skid  convers- 
ing lazily  were  in  advance  of  them.  Only  the 
intuition  of  suspicion  could  make  one  think  that  Toot- 
sie  was  unhappy.  When  well  on  our  way  she  sud- 
denly recovered  her  wonted  gaiety,  but  ranged  very 
closely  along  the  precipices  of  jollity. 

When  Tootsie  Greyson  threw  aside  her  fashion- 
able outer  glories  as  she  sat  down  in  her  seat  at 
the  theater,  she  appeared  like  a  fulvous  being  of 
tinted  gleams  of  white,  pink  and  flashing  tawniness. 

Evening  attire  starts  one  wrong  with  a  woman 
naturally.  So  I  said,  "  Tootsie,  my  little  niece  by 
good  fortune,  you  look  sweet  enough  to  be  seated 
on  a  rainbow." 

223 


224  At  the  Greysons' 

"I  wonder  what  Skid  is  thinking  about,"  she  an- 
swered unsmilingly. 

I  gazed  at  the  young  man  and  saw  his  eyes  fixed 
proudly  and  softly  on  Alice.  And  Alice!  She  sat 
there  in  a  distinguished  repose  of  ardent  haughtiness, 
in  the  admiring  eyes  of  half  the  audience,  a  Venus 
come  to  red  life, — a  slimmer  Venus  with  a  hand- 
somer Apollo.  I  cannot  tell  what  she  wore,  save 
that  there  were  a  few  rows  of  pearls  on  her  neck 
and  that  white  silk  and  blue  had  much  to  do  with 
the  vision.  Alice  had  more  personal  charms  of  a 
human  but  unusual  kind  than  I  had  ever  seen.  Skid 
was  apparently  less  of  and  on  the  earth  than  she. 
And  Tootsie  was  wondering  what  Skid  was  thinking 
about !  Suddenly  she  turned  to  me. 

"  Did  you  see  Tippy  Shurk  at  the  door?  "  No. 
I  saw  a  roguish  look  that  seemed  worth  pursuing 
to  the  thought.  I  looked  at  her  questioningly. 

"  Tippy  asked  me,  '  Who's  that  distinguished  look- 
ing Frenchman  with  you,  Toot?'  and  if  you  will 
promise  'pon-your-soul-an'-honor-an'-hope-to-die-if- 
you-don't,  that  you'll  look  pleased,  I  will  tell  you." 
I  solemnly  crossed  my  shirt  front. 

"  I  told  her  you  were  a  French  Count  from  the 
Wabashington  Embassy,  lost  in  our  village  this  after- 
nonn:  That  you  looked  so  sad  and  hungry  that  I 
took  you  in,  fed  you,  fitted  you  up  in  papa's  clothes, 
and  jus'  brung  yoh  'cause  you  didn't  know  nobody 
ner  nothin'."  It  was  very  amusing  the  way  she 
said  it. 

"And  Tippy  said— " 


The  Mortal  Illness  of  Alice  Greyson     225 

"  She  sniffed  and  said  she  never  would  divide  her 
gum  with  me  again.  There  she  is  by  that  bald- 
headed  man,  that's  her  father,  near  the  right 
box.  He's  the  Chief  Justice.  Don't  look  till  I 
tell  you.  She's  looking  at  us  with  those  yorricks 
now." 

I  looked.  Simply  another  beauty.  "  Yes ;  beau- 
tiful, but — Yorricks?" 

"  Graveyard  orbs,"  translated  Toot. — "  See  that 
girl  in  the  left  second  box  below?  " 

I  did. 

"  See  her  right  jaw?"      I  did,  it  was  swollen. 

"Will  she  go  out  between  the  acts  to  chew  her 
gum,  Tootsie  G.  ?  " 

"  No ;  toothache.  She  'phoned  me  this  afternoon. 
Nearly  dead  then.  Wouldn't  think  so  now,  would 
you?  "  The  lady  was  continually  arranging  a  stray 
lock  left  for  display  purposes,  and  her  diamonds  on 
hand  and  hair  needed  constant  correction,  the  ac- 
cumulating display  accomplished  with  deft  careless- 
ness. The  lights  went  low  and  then  we  thought  of 
our  programs. 

The  first  act  was  over,  the  lights  blazed  again. 
There  was  a  call  of  the  cigarette  and  the  cocktail. 
What!  Skid  was  going  out?  Alice  following 
him?  Were  we  dreaming?  As  she  passed  us  she 
said: 

"I  feel  faint,  mother,  a  breath  of  air."  And 
Tootsie  looked  shocked. 

"What  do  you  think  of  that,  uncle?"  Perhaps 
she  read  my  face;  she  added,  "Simply  the  call 


226  At  the  Greysons' 

of    the — swamp."         I    was    heartless    enough    to 
say: 

"  Maybe  the  call  of  the  little  schoolhouse  at  the 
Crossings,  Tootsie."  But  I  noticed  that  Alice's  man- 
ner and  look  of  unconcern  was  impregnable  as  she 
followed  the  usher  up  the  aisle. 

"  Would  you  like  a  fresh  breath?  Maybe  we 
can  start  a  new  fad,  Tootsie?  " 

"  I  would  love  to,  but  I  haven't  the  nerves.  Alice 
can  do  a  thing  like  that.  If  I  should  attempt  it 
the  manager  would  come  out  on  the  stage  front  and 
shout : 

" '  Is  there  a  doacktoar  in  the  house  ?  Toot  Grey- 
son  has  a — has  a  fit  of  the  mumps? ' 

Mrs.  Greyson  laughed  as  heartily  as  I  did.  Then 
of  course  the  husband  had  to  be  enlightened,  and 
he  laughed  expansively. 

We  left  after  the  third  hiatus  of  the  play.  We 
were  troubled,  Mrs.  Greyson  and  I  and  the  Judge. 
Perhaps  Alice  was  ill.  I  observed  that  Tootsie  was 
quite  willing  to  go,  but  seemed  wholly  untroubled. 
I  could  imagine  Alice  stretched  on  a  lounge  at  home 
with  bandages  around  her  lovely  brows  moaning  with 
pain. 

We  walked  pretty  swiftly  homeward,  and  I  still 
recall  how  beautifully  sentimental  the  grand  night 
was  for  those  having  the  necessary  proclivities. 
When  we  reached  the  gate  to  the  great  lawns,  Mrs. 
Greyson  was  panting  with  her  ardor  and  alarm.  We 
discovered  Alice  and  Skid  walking  arm  in  arm  in 
the  moonlit  heaven  of  the  shrubbery,  lost  to  most  of 


The  Mortal  Illness  of  Alice  Greyson     227 

the  activities  of  life  except  those  immediately  at 
hand. 

No!  Tootsie  Greyson  was  not  at  all  alarmed. 
I  did  not  notice  the  least  trace  of  compassion  as  the 
little  maiden  sapiently  observed, 

"Alice  seems  to  be  entirely — discover-r-r-ed." 


CHAPTER  IX 
'A  SNAPPING  BLUE  DIAMOND 

THE  next  day  when  we  reached  the  swamp  rail- 
road station  our  conveyance  was  waiting,  and  we 
arrived  at  Mrs.  Puffer's  at  midnight.  The  next  two 
weeks  were  the  most  refreshing  hunting  season  of 
my  life.  We  ate  the  golden  pawpaws,  we  collected 
a  bushel  of  hazel  nuts  with  the  aid  of  Hink  and 
Hi.  Then  there  were  two  bags  of  shellbark  hickory 
nuts  for  us  further  down  on  the  Ridge,  little  and 
big  and  the  best  in  the  world.  Hi  and  Hink  were 
stained  beyond  recognition  hulling  black  walnuts, 
which  they  dried  on  the  milk-shed  roofs.  We  had 
fresh  cider  made  from  Rambo  apples,  and  winesaps, 
apples  for  any  of  the  lesser  gods.  Frost-covered 
pumpkins  were  transfigured  by  Mrs.  Puffer  into 
cream-made  pies.  Ducks  innumerable  fell;  toasting 
quail  and  spring  squirrels  scented  the  air.  Amid  the 
somnolent  haze  of  the  lands,  the  dreams  of  the  corn- 
fields, the  call  of  the  partridge,  the  slumbrous  tinkle 
of  the  cowbells,  the  morning  boom  of  the  prairie 
cocks,  the  spirit  of  contentment  dwelt  in  our  relaxing 
souls. 

One  soft  November  noon,  with  the  October  colors 
still  in  the  woods,  Skid  and  I  burglarized  the  little, 

228 


A  Snapping  Blue  Diamond  229 

vacant  schoolhouse.  A  well-worn  window,  after  a 
feeble  resistance,  permitted  our  entrance  to  the  edu- 
cational throne  of  Pufferland.  Pictures  from  maga- 
zines and  newspapers  illumined  the  yellow,  crime- 
stained  walls.  The  sunlight  flooded  the  remains  of 
desks;  lonely  flies  buzzed  on  the  smoky,  blue-tinged 
window  panes,  and  a  few  tall  ragweeds  stared  bra- 
zenly in  at  a  back  window.  There  was  the  uplifting 
smell  of  schoolhouse  emptiness,  and  withered  flowers 
dried  to  wisps  mutely  told  of  a  glory  that  was  gone. 
Skid  rifled  the  teacher's  desk  and  found  that  In- 
quisition of  schoolboys,  with  its  relics  of  tops,  crystal 
taws,  now  escheated  to  the  state,  a  warped  ruler, 
and  that  vast  accumulation  of  a  country  school's 
criminal  collections,  which  only  a  boy  expert  could 
Bertillonize.  A  large  bunch  of  gnawed  Testaments, 
long  unused  by  Pufferland,  had  found  in  a  happier 
day  a  mission  as  a  mouse's  nest.  Skid,  posing  per- 
haps like  Abe  Puffer,  recited,  as  nearly  as  he  could, 
a  long-time  favorite  of  the  swamp  educationists : 

"The  sea  fowl  hes  gone  to  'er  nes', 

The  beas'  hes  laid  down  in  'is  lair; 
Even  heyar  there's  a  seasing  o'  res' 
An'  I  to  my  cabing  repair." 

A  blackboard  made  of  wood  now  warped  and 
yellowish,  as  slick  as  crockery  and  as  resistant  to 
chalk,  still  held  its  position,  defiant  of  weather,  time 
and  the  unholy  purposes  for  which  country  school- 
house  blackboards  are  used.  The  remaining  plaster 
on  the  walls  held  whole  and  fragmentary  examples 


230  At  the  GreysonV 

of  native  art.  The  old  reddish,  egg-shaped  stove 
was  the  only  safe  and  solid  thing  in  the  room. 

"  Here's  Hink's  desk,  Colonel,"  shouted  Skid. 
"How  can  I  tell?  Why,  by  the  German  S  cut 
in  the  cover  that  Hi  taught  him  how  to  make  "  (as 
no  other  German  S  has  been  made,  since  the  begin- 
ning of  mortal  troubles). 

Our  two  weeks  passed  happily,  in  some  things 
perhaps  with  a  touch  of  wildness  in  some  of  our 
dreams.  For  who  would  not  dream  at  such  a  time 
so  filled  with  delightful  memories?  The  last  night 
in  Pufferland  we  were  walking  slowly  homeward, 
the  huge  red  sun  dim  on  the  western  level  of  the 
waste.  Near  the  middle  of  a  log  near  the  Sandhill 
road  I  saw  something  glitter  in  the  earth,  now  hard- 
ened to  a  rocklike  clump  of  mud.  Its  blue  gleam  was 
beautiful,  and  uttering  a  grunt  of  surprise  I  made 
a  dive  for  that  glittering  thing  and  dug  it  out.  It 
was  a  blue  scintillating  gem  about  as  large  as  a  sweet 
pea,  a  snapping  blue  diamond,  as  big  as  a  sweet 
pea. 

About  nine  o'clock  that  night,  with  the  collusion 
of  Skid,  I  was  adroitly  left  with  Mrs.  Puffer. 
I  talked  alone  with  her  for  perhaps  an  hour  while 
Skid  was  getting  our  baggage  together.  Our  con- 
versation turned  on  intimate  things  connected  with 
Skid's  present  and  future  life.  Mrs.  Puffer  was 
amiable,  though  not  a  trace  of  enthusiasm  illumined 
her  face.  There  was  a  lull  in  the  conversation,  an 
awkward  and  unnecessary  silence  which  she  twice 
tried  in  vain  to  break. 


A  Snapping  Blue  Diamond  231 

Finally  I  said,  "  There's  something  wrong  about 
Skid's  history,  Mrs.  Puffer." 

She  grew  fidgety,  but  made  no  answer.  Her 
quick  wit  immediately  divined  too  much.  I  covertly 
watched  her  uneasy  actions,  her  side  glances  at  me. 
She  knew  something  was  wrong.  Her  conscience 
was  on  edge. 

Perhaps  five  minutes  passed  without  a  word. 
"  Mrs.  Puffer,  what  became  of  the  watch  and  the 
blue  diamond  that — " 

Before  I  had  gone  that  far  I  saw  her  turn  as  white 
as  snow.  She  looked  wildly  at  me,  and  had  she 
been  less  fortified  by  the  coldness  of  her  temper  I 
am  sure  she  would  have  fainted.  She  misinterpreted 
the  look  of  triumph  on  my  face,  for  she  trembled 
like  a  leaf  as  she  answered,  "  I  am  not  to  blame. 
Abe  lost  it." 

"  I  suppose  so,  Mrs.  Puffer,  but  get  me  the  watch 
now."  She  made  an  effort  to  rise,  and  sank  back, 
her  face  pitiful  with  anxiety  and  fear.  "  Will  they 
put  me  in  jail  for  what  Abe  did?" 

"  I'll  protect  you  if  you'll  give  me  straight  goods, 
although  this  is  a  serious  affair  so  far  as  you  are 
concerned.  Get  me  the  letter  that  was  found  in  her 
stocking,  the  watch  and  the  other  things." 

She  was  reassured  by  my  tone  and  manner.  She 
tottered  a  moment,  suddenly  revived,  then  filled  with 
energy  she  raced  to  a  dark  closet  and  brought  out 
a  little  tin  box.  She  unlocked  it  with  a  small  key 
she  had  on  a  string  around  her  neck,  hidden  beneath 
her  gown,  gave  a  final,  fearful  glance  at  me,  opened 


232  At  the  Greysons' 

the  box,  and  gingerly  began  to  unwind  a  packet 
wrapped  in  a  white  cotton  remnant.  She  placed  a 
tiny  open-faced  watch  in  my  hand,  face  up!  Her 
hands  trembled  and  slyly  she  hid  them  under  her 
apron.  I  turned  the  watch  over  to  look  at  the  torn, 
rough  fastenings  on  the  other  side.  I  could  feel 
the  sharp  edges. 

"  The  letter,  Mrs.  Puffer."  She  handed  me  the 
stained  paper. 

"Anything  else,  Mrs.  Puffer?"  I  am  confident 
my  voice  was  kind. 

"That's  all.  I  wore  out  her  clothes."  I  scru- 
tinized the  watch  closely,  not  a  mark  or  scratch  of 
identification,  only  the  clumsy  breaks  of  the  setting. 

"Tell  me  about  the  jewel,  Mrs.  Puffer.  Who 
lost  it?"  She  gasped  and  began  to  shake.  Again 
she  suddenly  regathered  her  composure. 

"  Colonel,  since  you  are  Skid's  guardian,  I  will 
tell  you  now  why  I  held  back.  Abe  Puffer  was — 
you  know  about  him.  He  was  a  good  man  alto- 
gether. We  found  this  watch  on  her.  We  were 
terribly  poor  that  year.  We  could  not  pay  our 
taxes.  It  cost  to  bury  her.  Abe  said  by  law  we 
had  a  right  to  keep  this  if  there  was  no  owner.  So 
he  took  it.  We  had  been  at  expense  to  bury  her. 
No  one  would  have  taken  the  watch  anyway.  So 
we — just  kept  it.  One  day  Abe  asked  fer  the  key. 
The  tax  collector  was  coming  next  week.  He  pried 
the  diamond  out  and  took  it  down  to  Monticello 
to  sell  it.  And  before  he  got  to  the  Crossings  he 
lost  it.  When  Abe  come  home  'bout  an  hour  after- 


A  Snapping  Blue  Diamond  233 

ward,  he  bawled.  The  only  time  I  ever  saw  him 
do  that.  He  was  sorry.  He  got  to  thinking  about 
it  day  and  night,  and  could  not  eat  or  sleep. 

"  I  just  had  to  wear  her  clothes.  I  was  half- 
naked.  I  knew  God  would  punish  me.  I  got  old 
fast  after  that.  You  didn't  hear  me  object  very 
much  when  I  signed  away  my  rights  to  Skid.  That 
most  broke  my  heart.  He  was  all  I  had.  I  did  not 
tell  Skid.  He  was  the  best  boy  a  mother  ever  had. 
Onct  Abe  being  mad  was  going  to  whip  him.  I 
said,  '  Abe,  if  you  lay  a  hand  or  rod  on  that  child 
I  will  fight  you  to  death.'  He  knew  I  meant  it. 
I  did  wrong.  God  has  laid  His  hand  on  me.  I 
would  not  have  turned  old  with  this  gnawin'  in  my 
heart  if  God  was  not  punishing  me;  then  I  joined 
church." 

I  turned  to  the  watch;  was  that  not  a  screw  rim? 
I  began  to  twist.  It  would  not  budge.  "  Get  some 
kerosene,  Mrs.  Puffer."  I  poured  oil  on  it  and 
tried  again.  Not  a  movement  showed  that  it  was  a 
lid  that  screwed  on. 

"  Let  me  pour  some  boiling  water  on  it,  Colonel," 
she  cried  out  excitedly.  She  poured  the  water  on, 
and  I  tried  again.  It  slid,  turned  half  round  and 
stopped.  With  all  my  force  I  tried  once  more;  it 
hung  fast. 

"  Twist  it  shet  again,  Colonel."  She  was  ragingly 
excited.  I  turned  it  shut,  then  again  tried  the  re- 
turn movement  and  after  a  turn  or  two  the  thin 
lid  rolled  on  the  floor.  I  ran  for  it.  There  was 
not  a  letter,  not  a  scratch,  not  a  mark.  Yes;  I  saw 


234  At  the  Greysons' 

a  jeweler's  repair  number.    That  was  a  clue.    Thank 
heaven  for  as  much  as  that. 

I  slowly  screwed  the  lid  on  again  and  was  lost 
in  the  disappointment  of  defeat. 

Suddenly  I  heard  her  thin  sharp  voice.  "  Colonel, 
open  the  side."  I  stopped  abruptly  as  if  I  had  run 
against  a  wall. 

Perhaps  that  might  tell  something.  I  waited, 
then  slowly,  composedly,  unscrewed  the  case  and 
pried  the  inner  lid  open  with  my  knife.  As  it  flew 
back  I  cried  out.  There  was  a  small  daguerreotype 
of  a  beautiful  woman,  and  her  eyes  were  Skid's  very 
own !  And  there  at  the  bottom  were  two  initials, 
C.  G.  That  was  all,  but  enough.  She  was  as  aston- 
ished as  I  was. 

"  God  has  lifted  His  hand."  I  saw  an  exaltant  light 
in  the  old  withered  face.  Her  curse  was  lifted. 
Her  voice  had  an  intensity  that  made  me  think  of 
the  old  martyrs.  I  gave  her  my  hand  and  said, 
"  God  bless  you,  Mrs.  Puffer." 

All  at  once  I  thought  of  that  blue  snapping  dia- 
mond in  my  pocket.  I  drew  it  forth  and  before  she 
knew,  laid  it  in  her  withered  palm. 

She  stared  at  it,  drew  back,  bent  forward  again, 
touched  it  with  her  long  hard  finger.  It  turned  over. 
The  fascinating  watery  blue  glintings  seemed  to 
soften.  She  raised  her  eyes  upward,  white  light 
shot  through  her  twitching  face  and  she  began  and 
sang, 

'  Knocking,  knocking,  who  is  there? 
Waiting,  waiting,  Oh!  so  fair! 


A  Snapping  Blue  Diamond  235 

'Tis  a  pilgrim  strange  and  kingly, 
Never  such  was  seen  before. 
Ah!  my  soul,  for  such  a  wonder, 
Wilt  thou  not  undo  the  door  ? ' ' 

I  did  not  feel  the  faintest  grotesqueness  in  the 
situation,  or  in  the  thin,  tense  voice.  I  rose;  she 
took  my  hand.  "  It's  all  right,  Mrs.  Puffer,  you 
have  made  good.  Good-night."  I  went  out,  closing 
the  door;  paused  on  the  steps,  I  heard  a  high  tense 
voice  praying. 

I  sought  Skid  in  the  little  summerhouse  by  the 
spring.  It  murmured  more  gently  than  I  had  ever 
heard  it  before  and  seemed  to  be  singing  to  Skid  in 
his  dreams. 


CHAPTER  X 
A  CRY  IN  THE  NIGHT 

IT  was  nearly  midnight  when  Skid  and  I  arrived 
in  Indianapolis.  He  was  soon  in  bed  and  asleep, 
for  it  had  been  a  tiresome  day.  I  had  not  told  him 
a  word,  and  Mrs.  Puffer  agreed  to  confide  nothing 
to  him  till  I  might  say  the  time  was  ripe.  The  hotel 
was  nearly  silent.  Here  and  there  some  belated 
traveler  was  figuring  over  his  daily  orders  or  smok- 
ing the  last  cigar.  The  mists  from  the  swamp  were 
stealing  in. 

I  went  to  the  telephone  and  called  Judge  Greyson ; 
a  sleepy  talker  came  to  the  other  end.  I  heard  the 
deep  protesting  voice  of  Judge  Greyson. 

"  I  told  you  at  ten,  Sam,  that  even  if  the  jury  did 
come  in  I  would  not  come  down  to-night.  Please 
don't  call  me  again."  "Click!"  said  the  'phone. 
The  Judge  had  hung  up.  I  called  for  Central  again. 
She  was  ready  to  defend  the  eminent  judge  from 
night  intrusions  by  over-zealous  reporters.  Just  a 
word  with  her, — this  was  in  Indianapolis  remember, 
— and  again  the  Judge  was  at  the  other  end  of  the 
wire.  His  voice  was  not  pleasant  now;  he  certainly 
knew  "Sam,"  the  villain,  whoever  he  was.  "Let 
me  tell  you  positively,  Sam,  that  I  will  not  stand  for 

236 


A  Cry  in  the  Night  237 

this.  What  ?  Who — er, — you,  Colonel  ?  A  thou- 
sand pardons!  I'm  coming.  Whirl  a  hack  down 
here.  Tell  him  to  run  his  horses.  Thank  God." — 
"  Click!  Click!  "  went  the  far  telephone. 

I  ran  out,  found  a  hackman,  thrust  five  dollars  in 
his  hand  and  told  him  to  race  for  Judge  Greyson 
and  be  back  in  half  an  hour.  In  fifteen  minutes  the 
Judge  was  wringing  my  hand,  his  heart  in  his  eyes. 
We  hurried  to  our  rooms. 

"  Sit  down,  Judge."  I  handed  him  the  stained 
letter. 

"  My  poor  girl;  my  poor  girl,"  was  all  he  said. 
He  looked  eagerly  for  something  else.  I  handed 
him  the  blue  diamond. 

"  There !  "  he  said,  jumping  up  and  twisting  it 
in  the  light.  "  See  that  certain  blue  and  green  light 
as  I  hold  it  so.  That  is  almost  evidence  enough. 
Where  did—" 

"  Wait,  Judge."  I  handed  out  the  watch  and 
showed  him  the  face  within  the  lid.  He  gasped 
and  bent  his  face  in  his  hands  and  shook.  Then 
in  a  few  sentences  I  told  him  the  rest.  He  raised 
his  great  leonine  head,  his  face  white,  his  body  shak- 
ing with  unspent  sobs. 

"Does  Skid  know  yet?" 

"  Not  a  word."  He  bent  down  and  I  heard 
smothering  sobs  in  his  hands. 

He  rose  silently,  not  trusting  his  voice,  and  took 
his  hat  from  the  table.  I  offered  him  the  jewel, 
the  letter  and  the  watch ;  he  hesitated,  took  them  and 
put  them  in  his  overcoat  pocket,  wrung  my  hand  as 


238  At  the  Greysons' 

he  turned  his  head  to  the  side  and  went  from  the 
room  without  a  word. 

A  minute  later  I  heard  the  dull  roll  of  the  hack 
flying  down  a  darkish,  mist-filled  street. 

The  next  morning  I  received  a  message  from  the 
Judge,  and  I  was  soon  at  his  house.  He  and  I 
retired  to  the  library  and  completed  our  plans.  I 
was  diplomatically  to  open  the  subject  with  his  wife 
and  at  the  proper  moment  the  picture  of  the  lost 
Claire  was  to  be  brought  in.  Meanwhile  the  evi- 
dence was  to  be  presented  piece  by  piece.  We  went 
into  the  sitting  room. 

Alice  was  absent,  why  I  did  not  know  then.  I 
talked  of  our  hunting  trip,  made  them  laugh  nerv- 
ously once  or  twice  and  at  last  I  began  the  main 
recital. 

"  You  recall,  Mrs.  Greyson,  that  a  month  or  so 
since  you  told  me  that  it  was  possible  Mrs.  Puffer 
knew  more  about  the  dead  woman  found  in  the 
swamp.  While  out  there  I  thought  I  would  ask 
her  if  there  were  other  things  she  knew  about.  Skid 
told  me  the  dead  woman  was  the  most  beautiful 
woman  he  ever  saw;  he  was  about  nine  or  ten  years 
old  then.  You  remember  her  looks,  Skid?  Describe 
her,  can't  you?  " 

"  She  had  black,  curling  hair,  but  draggly  because 
she  had  been  in  the  water  and  mud.  Her  eyes 
were  dark,  soft,  pitiful,  so  I  just  couldn't  look  at 
her  very  long  without  finding  my  eyes  filling  up.  I 
don't  remember  much  else." 

Though  I  had  seen  the  Judge  catch  his  breath  and 


A  Cry  in  the  Night  239 

Mrs.  Greyson  seemed  on  the  point  of  a  question,  they 
tried  to  look  simply  interested.  Skid,  however,  was 
watching  me  with  the  eyes  of  a  falcon.  I  could  not 
help  feeling  a  little  disconcerted,  though  I  went  on 
as  heartily  as  I  could. 

"  '  Mrs.  Puffer,'  I  asked,  '  where  is  that  watch  you 
found  on  the  dead  woman  that — '  Well,  Mrs. 
Greyson,  I  recalled  your  remark  about  Mrs.  Puffer 
holding  something  back.  She  acted  as  if  she  was 
going  to  faint.  After  a  little  she  recovered  and 
went  to  a  closet,  brought  out  a  box,  unlocked  it  and 
produced  a  little  watch."  The  Judge  felt  in  his 
pocket,  but  I  signaled  him  to  be  quiet. 

"  Then  I  said,  '  Where  is  the  jewel  that  was  in 
this  lid?'  Then  she  confessed.  Abe  Puffer,  think- 
ing he  had  a  claim  on  the  dead  woman's  remaining 
valuables,  and  being  hard  up,  to  pay  his  taxes  gouged 
the  jewel  out  and  took  it  down  to  Monticello  to  sell 
it.  On  the  way  he  lost  it.  Skid  and  I,  the  last 
evening  we  were  there,  found  it  on  our  way  home. 
Skid,  you  recall  it?  " 

Skid  said,  "Yes;  the  Colonel  kept  it  mighty  close, 
though." 

+  "  Let  me  see,  have  you  the  diamond  I  gave  you, 
Judge?"  Skid  and  the  others  examined  it  without 
a  word.  I  handed  it  back  to  the  Judge.  Skid  was 
surely  being  fooled  as  to  our  intentions. 

"  Then  I  looked  over  the  watch  case  for  some 
identifying  mark  and  found  none.  Mrs.  Puffer  was 
very  uneasy,  but  I  told  her  that  she  had  not  gone 
very  far  wrong,  that  it  was  more  her  husband's  fault. 


240  At  the  Greysons' 

I  saw  that  it  was  an  open-faced,  lady's  gold  watch, 
and  that  the  outer  back  lid  was  screwed  on.  I  un- 
screwed it,  and  there  were  no  more  identification 
marks  on  the  inside  than  there  were  on  the  outside. 
I  was  very  much  disappointed,  because  any  one  would 
naturally  want  to  discover  who  the  woman  was.  Mrs. 
Puffer  told  me  to  pry  the  inner  lid  off  and  I  did. 
Judge,  where  is  that  watch?" 

The  Judge  did  well,  but  Skid  instantly  noted  the 
meaning  in  his  face.  Mrs.  Greyson  was  white  and 
Tootsie  Greyson  looked  steadily  in  her  lap. 

"Ah!  that's  it,"  I  cried  out  as  I  took  it,  trying 
to  be  calm.  "  Look  at  this,  Skid." 

As  he  glanced  he  started  back  in  astonishment  and 
burst  out  excitedly,  "That's  the  very  face  of  the 
dead  woman.  I  would  know  it  anywhere." 

A  sudden  wave  of  happiness  and  relief  rushed 
through  the  Judge's  over-wrought  face.  He  shook 
excitedly  as  he  grasped  Skid's  hand. 

"God  bless  you,  my  boy.  I  have  waited  a  long 
time  for  this.  Mother?  "  He  turned  to  his  wife. 
Mrs.  Greyson  moved  swiftly  out  of  the  room  and 
almost  immediately  returned  with  the  servants,  lug- 
ging a  large  picture  in  a  frame — the  face  turned 
away  from  us.  Then  when  in  a  good  position  the 
portrait  of  the  lost  daughter  was  whirled  round  sud- 
denly and  Mrs. 'Greyson  stepped  back. 

"Oh!"  cried  Skid  as  if  stabbed  with  a  knife, 
"  that  is  the  very  image." 

Mrs.  Greyson  burst  out  weeping  and  left  the 
room.  Skid  was  acting  in  a  most  unaccountable  man- 


A  Cry  in  the  Night  241 

ner.  He  cast  a  scared,  doubting  look  at  me  twice; 
his  breast  heaved  and  he  seemed  about  to  speak, 
but  remained  silent. 

The  Judge's  voice  was  resonant  as  he  asked,  "  Has 
Alice  got  back  yet?  Colonel,  I  have  spent  some  of 
the  best  years  of  my  life  trying  to  solve  my  daugh- 
ter's disappearance.  I  cannot  tell  you  how  grateful 
I  am.  I  can  sleep  in  peace  now."  Then,  moved  too 
deeply  to  trust  himself  further,  he  went  into  the 
library.  Tootsie  was  watching  Skid  in  a  doubtful 
way;  she  could  not  understand  his  actions.  He  was 
staring  out  of  the  window  as  if  beyond  us  in  his 
thoughts. 

"  Here,  Skid  and  Tootsie,  is  something  that  will 
clinch  it  all."  They  came  close  to  me  and  I  took 
my  thumb  off  of  the  two  initials,  "  C.  G."  Mrs. 
Greyson  returned  and  said  quietly,  "Alice  is  here." 

I  turned  to  Skid.  "  The  Judge  bought  her  the 
watch,  set  with  the  diamond,  and  Mrs.  Puffer  gave 
me  the  unfinished  letter  you  told  me  once  that  they 
had  found.  Mrs.  Greyson,  you  know  it  is  your  hus- 
band's adopted  daughter's  handwriting?" 

Skid  was  staring  at  the  carpet  now.  I  do  not 
believe  he  heard  any  of  us.  He  appeared  lost  in 
disturbed  thoughts. 

"  From  all  I  know  and  heard  and  have  seen,  it 
is  our  daughter  Claire  who  is  buried  out  there  in 
that  swamp  graveyard.  We  will  have  her  brought 
here  and  reburied." 

In  the  excitement  of  the  various  emotions  all 
pitched  to  the  breaking  point,  I  think  none  of  us 


242  At  the  Greysons' 

except  Tootsie  and  me  had  looked  much  at  Skid. 
He  was  greatly  wrought  up  in  a  manner  that  puzzled 
me.  Why  should  he  not  be  happy  with  the  rest  of 
us?  Why  did  he  not  show  that  he  was  alive  to 
what  was  going  on  around  him  now?  He  was  mov- 
ing restlessly  and  a  look  of  misery  had  settled  like 
a  white  cloud  in  his  face. 

Just  then  Alice  hurried  in  behind  a  servant  who 
was  carrying  a  framed  portrait.  Alice  had  just 
come  into  the  house  with  it,  and  she  was  elated  and 
hurried.  Skid  stopped  short,  for  he  recognized  that 
it  was  one  of  himself  though  it  was  not  turned  to 
us  yet.  The  Judge  had  been  waiting  for  its  com- 
pletion for  a  month,  and  Alice  had  brought  it  in  a 
little  late,  with  the  paint  in  some  places  almost 
wet. 

"  Papa,"  called  Alice.  He  came  in  with  marks 
of  tears  in  his  face.  Then  Alice  turned  her  picture 
and  set  it  beside  the  dead  vision  of  Claire.  I  could 
scarcely  believe  my  eyes.  I  never  thought  the  like- 
ness of  a  man  and  a  woman  could  so  vividly  counter- 
feit each  other.  I  looked  at  Skid.  He  was  staring 
entranced  at  one,  then  the  other. 

Now  everybody  in  the  room  was  gazing  at  Skid 
Puffer.  His  eyes  turned  finally  on  the  picture  of 
Claire.  His  face  lighted.  He  did  not  appear  to 
recognize  that  we  were  around  him.  His  lips  were 
moving,  mumbling  in  the  still  room;  faint  but  clear 
we  heard  the  one  word,  "  Mother." 

He  was  so  rapt,  staring  so  tensely  at  the  picture 
of  the  dead  woman,  which  looked  wistful,  lifelike, 


A  Cry  in  the  Night  243 

almost  pleading,  that  we  turned  to  one  another  ques- 
tioningly,  wondering  if  we  heard  aright. 

Then  he  sank  down  in  a  chair  and  covered  his 
face.  He  shook  with  a  grief  we  could  not  under- 
stand, but  not  a  moan,  not  a  word  escaped  him.  A 
moment  after  he  felt  out  blindly  as  he  bent  there, 
grasped  my  arm  unseeingly  and  rose;  and  together 
we  turned  and  slowly  went  out  the  door.  I  guided 
him  to  a  covered  seat  in  the  shrubberies  and  still 
without  a  word  or  sob,  he  slowly  recovered.  At  last 
he  sat  up. 

"  Colonel,  you  don't  understand.  I  will  tell  you 
now."  He  paused  for  perhaps  a  minute,  then  started 
on  again  with  a  gasp. 

"  I  want  you  to  go  in  and  tell  them  I  want  to 
explain  something."  I  rose  to  go. 

"  I  will  come  in  a  minute  or  so." 

I  entered  the  house,  every  eye  turned  on  me.  I 
shook  my  head.  I  told  them  what  he  had  asked. 
We  saw  him  coming  in,  erect,  his  face  drawn  and 
white.  We  were  all  seated.  The  Judge  seemed 
about  to  say  something  to  relieve  the  tension,  when 
Skid  said  measuredly: 

"  When  the  Colonel  offered  to  take  me  away  to 
educate  me  I  started  to  tell  him  something  I  had 
promised  Mrs.  Puffer  not  to  tell.  I  also  promised 
Squire  Puffer  when  he  was  dying  that  I  would  never 
tell.  I  felt  sure  I  ought  to  tell.  I  tried  to  tell 
Colonel  French  about  the  killdeer,  but  he  told  me 
never  to  mention  it  again.  The  killdeer,  the  killdeer 
had  been  trying  to  tell  me  till  I  understood  at  last. 


244  At  the  Greysons' 

He  said  it  was  superstition,  and  to  drive  it  out  of 
my  heart.  When  I  showed  him  the  Judge's  letter 
to  Robert  Greyson  I  told  him  that  night  while  it 
was  crying  down  from  the  sky  that  the  little  killdeer 
and  I  were  in  touch.  I  felt  sure  then.  When  Abe 
Puffer  laid  your  daughter  Claire  on  the  bed  he 
turned  to  Mrs.  Puffer  and  said,  '  She  looks  like 
Skid.' 

"When  Mrs.  Puffer  looked  at  her,  she  seemed 
scared.  They  made  me  promise  afterward  never 
to  tell.  And  I  never  did.  I  told  the  Colonel  twice 
by  words  and  once  by  letter  I  must  tell  him.  What 
made  me  so  slow  was,  I  did  not  know  it  would  do 
any  good.  Besides,  the  Colonel  shut  me  up  twice. 
I  promised  Squire  Puffer  when  he  was  on  his  death- 
bed that  I  would  never  tell." 

He  stopped.  None  of  us  knew  what  he  meant. 
He  had  not  explained  anything.  What  had  he  to 
tell?  The  Judge  had  become  wise  in  certain  ex- 
pressions of  the  soul,  for  he  had  led  out  many  a 
halting  soul  on  the  borderland  of  confession. 

"  Skid,"  he  said,  "  we  believe  in  you.  You  have 
not  sized  the  matter  up  right.  You  are  square,  all 
of  us  know  you  are,  and  your  promise  to  those  old 
people  who  have  done  things  they  should  not  have 
done,  was  not  for  your  benefit.  It  was  to  hide  some 
of  the  wrongs  that  they  did.  If  you  promised  what 
your  morals  and  good  heart  show  you  now  was  wrong 
you  are  absolved  from  any  promises.  What  did  you 
want  to  tell  Colonel  French?  What  should  you  tell 
us  now?  Trust  us." 


A  Cry  in  the  Night  244 

"  I  am  not  a  Puffer.  They  adopted  me  at  ten. 
Claire  Greyson  is — is — my  mother." 

Then  he  sank  down  on  the  parlor  lounge.  In  an 
instant  Tootsie  was  crying  with  her  arms  around  his 
neck,  her  cheek  against  his  own.  Mrs.  Greyson  was 
kneeling  at  his  feet,  soothing  and  trying  to  hold  his 
face  in  her  hands.  I  do  not  know  what  Alice  or 
her  father  did,  but  I  recall  that  I  found  myself  a 
few  moments  later  sitting  by  Skid  on  the  opposite 
side  from  Tootsie  Greyson  with  an  arm  around  his 
waist.  A  minute  later  several  of  us  were  shaking 
hands  and  laughing  through  our  tears.  To  this  day, 
years  after,  I  do  not  know  what  Alice  Greyson  said 
or  did. 

After  the  storm  the  rainbow.  Our  spirits  rose 
in  joy  after  having  been  submerged.  Later  there 
was  a  duet  by  Alice  on  the  piano  and  Tootsie  on 
the  violin.  Tootsie  could  play  as  well  as  she  looked. 
It  seems  almost  incredible,  now  that  it  recurs  to  me, 
that  Tootsie  and  Skid  waltzed.  Even  Justice  Grey- 
son  was  joyfully  extravagant  and  sang,  "  I'm  Joe 
Bowers  from  Pike."  After  some  urging  he  sang 
"We  Are  Growing  Old,  Maggie,"  and  Tootsie  ac- 
companied him  on  the  violin. 

Skid  was  quiet  through  it  all,  yet  cordially  inter- 
ested and  no  sign  of  brooding  was  on  his  face.  Alice 
told  a  funny  story  of  the  "  Crossins  schoolhouse  "  and 
we  turned  to  Skid  for  a  tale  of  the  Kankakee  world. 

"  I  was  thinking  this  afternoon  of  a  voice  I  heard 
in  the  sky  one  night;  would  you  like  to  hear  it?" 


246  At  the  Greysons' 

We  prepared  to  hear  something  humorous  and  we 
urged  him  to  go  on. 

"  One  night  after  I  had  come  from  the  Tippe- 
canoe  County  Fair,  and  had  seen  things  I  had  only 
heard  or  dreamed  of  before,  I  went  out  on  the  sand- 
ridge  behind  our  house, — well, — to  think.  The 
black  clouds  of  a  storm  were  flying.  It  was  nearly 
midnight  in  October.  The  leaves  in  the  jack-oaks 
were  talking  that  night.  There  was  something  in 
my  heart  that  kept  calling  up  to  me;  it  seemed  to 
say  over  and  over  again,  '  Skid  Puffer,  you  are  lost; 
Skid  Puffer,  you  are  lost.' 

"Oh!  but  it  was  a  black  night,  with  shadows 
looking  queer  in  the  sheet  lightning.  But  it  was 
the  stillest  night  I  ever  was  out  in,  except  for  the 
wind  that  swelled  along.  I  looked  towards  the  house 
and  I  could  see  the  candle  shining,  but  that  was  all 
I  could  see  except  the  queer  things  in  the  sheet  light- 
nings. 

"  Then  way  off,  seemed  a  mile,  I  heard  a  cry  in 
the  skies.  Then  everything  was  still  again.  Soon 
after  right  close  it  broke  out  sharp  and  clear.  It 
was  that  cry  of  a  wounded  goose,  dying  as  it  flies 
and  lost  in  the  blackness.  It  was  going  nowhere, 
right  in  the  face  of  the  storm,  or  to  its  home  in 
the  swamp.  It  must  have  been  flying  since  sundown, 
because  it  had  the  cry  of  a  goose  that  is  shot,  but 
not  hurt  enough  to  die  right  away,  but  starts  out 
nowhere  to  get  away  from  the  pain.  Closer  and 
closer  it  came,  its  cry  sharper  and  more  piercing,  till 
it  got  right  over  me.  It  said  just  as  plain  as  I  am 


A  Cry  in  the  Night  247 

telling  you,  but  not  in  words  of  course,  '  Skid  Puffer, 
you  are  lost;  Skid  Puffer,  you  are  lost;  Skid  Puffer, 
you  are  lost.' 

"  It  passed  over  me,  its  cry  of  fear  and  pain  grew 
duller,  thinner,  till  the  call  and  cry  was  nearly  out 
of  my  ears.  Suddenly  I  heard  that  swirling  cry  that 
hunters  sometimes  hear  when  they  shoot  in  the  sky 
at  a  flock  of  geese  and  one  comes  whirling  down. 
I  knew  it  had  dropped. 

"  I  sneaked  home  hot  and  teary  and  slipped  into 
bed,  and  all  through  the  rest  of  the  night  in  my 
dreams  I  heard  that  cry :  *  Skid  Puffer,  you  are  lost.' 
Next  morning  I  flung  open  my  summerhouse  screen 
door,  and  there  at  the  end  of  the  steps,  with  its 
wings  stretched  out,  its  little  blue  eyes  looking  right 
into  mine,  was  that  lost  goose  that  flew  into  the  face 
of  the  storm.  The  sunshine  was  playing  mixed  criss- 
cross in  the  glance  holes  of  the  jack-oak  treetops  and 
there  wasn't  a  trace  of  a  storm." 

That  was  all,  the  tale  was  done.  A  moment  later 
Tootsie  and  Skid  were  amiably  walking  on  the  lawn 
and  seemed  as  contented  as  children. 

'  That  boy  can  make  me  laugh  or  shiver  as  he 
pleases  with  his  tales  of  that — that  infernal  swamp," 
said  the  Judge  very  soberly.  Mrs.  Greyson  rose 
and  peered  through  the  window.  "  If  Tootsie  will 
interpret  that  story  properly  I  think  Skid  will  get 
great  comfort  out  of  it,"  she  said.  Tootsie,  as  I 
found  on  a  later  day,  was  a  feminine  Joseph  that 
read  the  meaning  of  the  voice  of  that  cry  in  the  sky 
in  the  dead  of  night. 


CHAPTER  XI 
THE  BLACK  DEVIL 

I  RETURNED  to  my  affairs  in  Chicago  and  an  early 
winter  came  in.  I  received  short  letters  frequently 
from  Skid,  longer  ones  from  the  Judge  and  daughter, 
all  noting  just  the  common  run  of  things.  Tootsie 
was  bending  down  more  enthusiastically  than  ever  to 
her  teaching.  Skid  had  broken  a  finger,  Alice  had 
gone  to  New  England  for  a  winter  visit,  the  Judge 
was  laying  the  invisible  wires  for  re-election,  Mrs. 
Greyson  had  been  ill,  and  Mrs.  Puffer  had  moved  to 
town.  She  had  taken  a  house  for  boarders,  her  fame 
grew  and  her  lodgers  waxed  reasonably  fat.  Even 
Hi  Spading,  who  staid  with  her,  was  learning  to  talk 
and  act,  and  had  shed  a  gray  nest  of  swamp  peculi- 
arities as  well  as  his  deeper  freckles. 

Nearly  all  of  Skid  Puffer's  studies  were  by  ob- 
jective methods  in  elementary  natural  science.  He 
could  prepare  a  microscopic  slide,  analyze  a  fish  or 
a  frog,  and  had  his  bottles,  jars  and  dissecting  pans, 
his  dumb-bells,  his  trapeze  bars,  his  fencing  swords, 
and  his  boxing  gloves,  his  eternal  spelling,  spoken 
grammar  and  the  everlasting  grooming  in  the  refine- 
ments of  the  Greyson  home. 

He  wrote  me  that  he  could  hold  out  fifty  pounds 

248 


The  Black  Devil  249 

weight  at  level  arm's  length,  could  turn  a  forward 
summersault,  and  daily  made  his  high  jump  of  five 
feet  ten  with  a  fraction  to  spare.  He  was  five  feet 
eleven  and  three-quarter  inches  tall,  weighed  one  hun- 
dred and  ninety  pounds,  and  though  most  of  his 
sprinting  was  cut  out,  he  had  run  one  hundred  yards 
in  ten  seconds  plus. 

He  and  Tootsie  had  attended  lectures  on  literary 
subjects,  visited  Mrs.  Puffer  twice  each  week  and 
passed  several  Sunday  afternoons  with  her.  Tootsie 
had  written  me  that  Skid  as  a  pupil  behaved  beau- 
tifully, and  had  become  a  giant  in  size  and  strength, 
but  that  she  could  control  him  with  her  little  finger 
if  she  looked  fierce  enough. 

When  the  middle  of  April  came,  the  Judge  wrote 
me  he  had  been  successful,  and  that  he  was  making 
arrangements  for  a  banquet  in  June  for  his  asso- 
ciates and  political  friends.  He  invited  me  as  his 
star  guest.  The  winter  had  been  muddy,  wet  and 
miserable,  and  March  of  that  year  will  be  remem- 
bered for  years  as  the  muddiest  and  gloomiest  in  the 
history  of  Indiana.  Alice  came  back  in  early  April. 
Skid  was  nearly  twenty  years  old. 

I  ran  down  to  Indianapolis  in  late  April,  unan- 
nounced, audited  and  paid  certain  bills,  and  made 
certain  reports  to  Court.  The  Judge  and  I,  after 
our  labors,  on  a  fine  balmy  evening,  arm  and  arm 
pursued  the  uneven  tenor  of  our  way  to  the  Greyson 
home.  No  one  except  him  knew  I  had  arrived,  and 
as  we  entered  the  broad  driveway  we  felt  as  sly  as 
two  cunning  old  foxes.  Skid  and  Hi,  who  had  been 


250  At  the  Greysons' 

boxing  in  his  gymnasium,  had  come  out  to  a  se- 
cluded seat  in  the  yard  to  cool  off.  Their  backs  were 
to  us,  and  they  were  quietly  talking.  Tacitly  we 
crouched;  I  think  the  Judge  toed  in  like  Indians  he 
had  read  about  in  an  earlier  but  influential  literature, 
and  I  felt  that  when  it  came  to  stealing  up  unawares 
on  unsuspecting  victims,  I  should  be  put  near  to  the 
top  of  the  percentage  columns. 

About  the  time  we  bent  down  in  our  Indian  treach- 
eries, we  saw  a  white  figure,  Tootsie,  with  clutched 
skirts,  stealing  on  them,  and  we  waited  to  see  the 
effect  of  amateur  work.  She  reached  her  unsuspect- 
ing victims  and  screamed,  and  their  startled  jump 
seemed  to  satisfy  her  roguish  propensities.  But  she 
only  screamed;  the  Judge  and  I  had  real  lungs. 

They  sat  down  amiably  together.  It  was  now 
our  turn.  We  sneaked,  we  crouched,  we  shudder- 
ingly  stole  like  red  savages  on  the  helpless  whites. 
As  we  got  closer  I  now  recall  that  Tootsie,  whose  face 
I  am  sure  was  sidewise  to  us,  startled  a  little  and 
immediately  said  something  to  them.  I  would  testify 
that  nobody  looked  our  way.  I  recall  that  imme- 
diately each  one  became  very  voluble,  and  seemed 
interested  in  something  beyond  them  at  which  Skid 
was  laboriously  pointing. 

We  sneaked  close,  inhaled  to  the  bursting  point 
and  shouted  loud  enough  to  bring  out  the  fire  de- 
partment. Not  a  muscle  moved  in  any  of  them  ex- 
cept in  Tootsie,  who  simply  vibrated  with  the  shock 
of  sounds.  After  perhaps  twenty  seconds,  Skid 
turned  carelessly  around  and  said  crossly, 


The  Black  Devil  251 

"What's  ailing  you  two  old  gentlemen?" 

Then  all  of  them,  those  conscienceless  three, 
seemed  deadly  interested  in  a  henhouse  across  the 
way.  Even  Hi,  after  all  I  had  done  for  him,  looked 
enraptured  at  that  far-off  henhouse.  The  Judge  and 
I  were  simply  neglible  parts  of  the  more  common 
scenery.  A  henhouse  was  enchanting. 

We  got  all  the  surprise  and  shock  that  I  noticed 
in  that  immediate  vicinity.  We  looked  in  each  other's 
faces  and  laughed  weakly.  They  made  glorious 
amends  a  few  seconds  after,  but  the  Judge  and  I 
solemnly  shook  hands  and  promised  never  again  to 
practise  barbarian  stealth,  at  least  not  on  conscience- 
less whites. 

The  air  was  sweet,  there  were  new  spring  scents, 
the  slim  moon  danced  along  a  crimson  cloud  in  the 
sunset  glow  and  night  came  in  soft  and  lovely.  The 
evening  was  passed  delightfully,  happily.  Skid  was 
to  meet  me  at  the  hotel  early  the  next  day  and  all 
of  us  were  on  the  veranda  saying  good-night.  The 
Judge  and  Skid  started  to  accompany  me  to  the  dis- 
tant gate. 

We  were  scarcely  on  the  long  gravel  walk  when 
we  saw  at  the  same  time  a  man  skulking  in  the 
shade  of  a  vine-clad  tree.  Skid,  without  a  word, 
dashed  at  him.  The  skulker  ran  down  the  carriage 
driveway  to  the  closed  iron  gates.  The  pursuer  and 
pursued  flew.  The  Judge  and  I,  panting  like  fat 
oxen  on  a  hot  July  day,  raced  after  them.  Nobody 
was  holding  a  watch,  nobody  knew  the  distance,  but 
it  was  the  fastest  sprinting  I  had  ever  seen, — and 


252  At  the  GreysonV 

it  was  the  first  that  the  Judge  and  I  had  done  for 
years.  After  Skid  got  in  the  gravel  stretch  he  did 
not  apparently  gain  a  foot.  The  skulker  reached 
the  gate,  swung  over  gracefully  without  touching  the 
gate  and  ran  on.  We  heard  a  mean,  mocking  laugh; 
it  chilled  us.  Skid  had  made  no  preparations  for 
stopping,  and  brought  up  hard  against  the  gate. 

He  came  back  rubbing,  and  screwing  his  face  up 
with  grinning  pain. 

"  Abe  Puffer  and  Cluck  all  over  again,"  said  Skid, 
trying  to  look  more  comfortable  than  he  felt. 
"  Colonel,  a  whole  drove  of  muskrat  skins  if  you  will 
bury  that  man."  The  Judge  and  I  meanly  laughed. 
It  was  Skid's  fault,  anyway.  We  discussed  the  case 
in  all  its  phases  as  we  recrossed  to  the  gate.  Then 
the  Judge,  having  exhausted  his  ingenuity,  asked  for 
Skid's  opinion. 

"  The  man  that  made  that  run  and  cleared  that 
wagon  gate  is  a  topnotcher  in  athletics.  He's  a  ten- 
second  man  and  a  six-foot  bar  athlete.  There  are 
very  few  men  his  equal.  The  way  he  crouched  when 
he  ran;  the  manner  of  swinging  his  arms,  and  the 
swing  sidewise  of  his  feet  when  he  swept  over  that 
six-foot  gate,  means  that  he's  whipcord,  steel  and 
watch  springs  mixed." 

The  Judge  became  immediately  grave.  "  Call  at 
the  office,  Colonel,  at  eleven  in  the  forenoon  if  you 
can.  Good-night,  Colonel."  And  the  Judge,  in 
agitated  thought,  hurried  away.  Skid  followed  alone 
behind  him. 

When  Skid  Puffer  visited  me  the  next  morning  I 


The  Black  Devil  253 

asked,   "Well,   Skid,   how  are  you  on  road  racing 
to-day?" 

He  smiled  queerly,  enigmatically.  After  a  mo- 
ment's pause  he  answered  with  a  question,  "  What's 
your  guess?  " 

I  was  not  talkative  as  long  as  Skid  avoided  my 
question.  I  was  wondering  if  the  Judge's  strange 
actions  at  parting  could  be  explained;  whether  Skid 
himself  had  noticed  anything  out  of  the  ordinary. 

"  I  measured  the  height  of  the  gate  this  morning 
and  it  was  an  even  six  feet.  I  tried  to  learn  some- 
thing from  Alice  about  Lem.  She  said  she  scarcely 
ever  saw  him  and  remembered  him  by  his  having  a 
white  cowlick  right  over  the  center  of  his  forehead, 
and  that  he  had  a  birthmark  on  the  back  of  his 
neck  just  the  shape  of  a  Bartlett  pear,  greenish  red 
in  color.  She  said  he  was  heavy,  short,  whiskered 
and  strong  as  an  ox. 

"  I  then  asked  her  about  Robert  Greyson,  and  she 
said  she  did  not  know  him  at  all.  They  have  no 
pictures  of  either  in  the  family.  I  asked  the  Judge 
plain  out  if  he  thought  Robert  Greyson  was  the 
man  that  was  skulking  in  the  shrubbery.  He  looked 
startled,  but  he  calmed  down  quickly  and  said,  '  Oh, 
I  guess  not,  my  son.  He  is  where  he  cannot  bother 
anybody  if  he  wanted  to.  It's  such  a  disagreeable 
matter,  my  boy,  I  wish  you  would  never  mention  him 
again  to  me.  He  is  a  damned  rascal  if  there  ever 
was  one.'  And  then  he  went  to  turning  over  some 
papers  just  as  if  the  subject  was  exhausted,  and  I 
came  away." 


254  At  the  Greysons' 

"  Skid,  we  have  got  to  find  out  who  this  Robert 
Greyson  is." 

The  severe  light  that  leaped  into  Skid's  fine  eyes 
surprised  me.  I  thought  that  I  would  gradually 
lead  away  from  the  subject,  not  knowing  then  I  was 
playing  around  a  crater  of  feelings  that  shocked  me 
when  the  outburst  came. 

"  Well,  what  shall  we  do  about  it,  Skid?  "  I  asked 
carelessly. 

"  I  am  going  to  learn  to  run  faster  than  that  man ; 
and  what's  more  I  am  going  to  jump  that  gate  clear 
if  I  get  killed  trying  to  do  it." 

Later  we  called  on  Mrs.  Puffer,  and  I  learned  from 
her  that  the  fugitive  preacher  was  slow-motioned, 
tall,  sarcastic  and  too  polite.  I  asked  her  why  the 
swamp  people  called  him  a  horse-thief. 

"  Well,  you  see,  Colonel,  the  people  out  there  are 
naturally  suspicious  of  anything  out  of  the  common 
which  they  can  not  explain  by  their  experience. 
That's  the  way  with  this  preacher.  He  was  cautious, 
never  told  anything  about  himself,  and  was  entirely 
too  good  a  preacher  for  us  poor  people.  The  sheriff 
came  up  there  hunting  a  horse-thief  when  the 
preacher  had  gone.  We  described  him  and  found 
the  sheriff  was  after  a  different  man.  The  sheriff 
said  his  man  was  short  and  stocky,  had  a  pear- 
shaped  birthmark  on  his  neck,  and  a  white  lock  of 
hair  over  his  forehead.  So  somehow  after  that  we 
got  to  calling  the  preacher  the  horse-thief.  We 
ought  not  to  have  done  that,  but  the  name  stuck. 
The  minister  said  his  name  was  Lemuel  Mason  from 


The  Black  Devil  255 

New  York  and  that  he  was  out  on  a  vacation.  But 
I  knew  he  was  a  bad  man  when  he  stole  out  one 
night  taking  Skid's  boat  and  not  paying  for  all  of 
his  board." 

After  we  left  Mrs.  Puffer,  Skid  and  I  sought  the 
public  park,  for  the  day  was  just  right  for  doing 
nothing.  The  soft  air  was  filled  with  fresh  fra- 
grances, there  seemed  to  be  a  new  light  in  the  sun- 
beams, the  birds  had  their  sweeter  tones  of  mating 
time.  We  sat  down  on  a  bench  sociably  silent. 

After  a  long  communional  silence  I  lazily  asked, 
"  Skid,  you  seem  to  be  taking  more  interest  than  ever 
in  physical  development;  why  is  this  thusly?  " 

"  I  feel  sure,  Colonel,  that  I  am  going  to  have 
another  real  mix-up  with  that  sneak  I  ran  out  of 
the  yard.  You  noticed,  I  suppose,  that  I  did  not 
put  my  hands  on  the  top  of  those  gates  and  swing 
over,  didn't  you?  I  was  glad  to  stop  right  there 
good  and  hard  rather  than  go  over.  If  I  had  caught 
that  man  it  is  probable  that  I  might  have  been  car- 
ried back  on  a  cellar  door." 

"  Can  you  cipher  out  who  he  could  be,  Skid?  " 

"  Just  guessing,  he's  some  fellow  that's  mixed  up 
with  the  Greysons.  Somehow,  in  a  way  I  can't 
understand,  he  seems  to  want  me.  He  shall  take 
me  sometime,  when  I  meet  him, — if  he  can."  There 
was  a  sudden,  deep  growling  roll  in  his  voice  that 
was  new  to  me.  There  were  passions  in  him  ready 
at  touch  that  I  did  not  suspect.  Without  another 
word  we  slowly  went  back  to  the  hotel.  I  sat  in 
a  chair  dreaming — he  stretched  full  length  on  a 


256  At  the  Greysons' 

lounge,  staring  at  the  ceiling  with  half-closed  eyes. 
We  remained  so  perhaps  for  half  an  hour.  I  looked 
over  at  him  and  was  astonished  to  see  his  great  eyes 
staring  savagely  at  the  ceiling. 

"  A  penny  for  your  thoughts,  Skid,"  I  cried  out 
abruptly.      He  jumped  up  startled,  smiled  seriously 
and  began  to  walk  back  and  forth  across  the  room. . 
I  had  never  seen  him  do  that  alone  before. 

"  I  was  thinking  about  that  beautiful  dead  woman 
Abe  Puffer  found  strangled  out  there  in  the  swamp. 
I  have  had  her  in  my  dreams  day  and  night  a  good 
deal  of  the  time  for  many  years  now.  When  I  used 
to  be  out  alone  on  the  ranges  herding  the  cattle, 
thinking  of  things  that  had  no  answer,  dreaming 
things  that  I  thought  could  never  come  true,  won- 
dering about  that  unfinished  letter  found  on  the  dead 
woman's  body,  why,  I  said  to  myself,  '  I  will  come 
across  that  man  that  strangled  that  woman  some  day.' 
I  just  could  not  get  that  clear  in  or  out  of  my 
mind. 

"  I  used  to  hear  those  swamp  killdeers.  There 
was  one  that  I  was  acquainted  with,  and  it  knew 
me  too.  When  I'd  chase  it  up  accidentally  it  would 
go  circling  'round  and  'round  the  skies,  right  'round 
me  too,  crying  out  shrilly,  '  Killdeer,  killdeer,  kill- 
deer.'  Once  I  dreamed  about  the  dead  woman,  and 
I  was  waked  up  by  a  loud,  nasty  laugh  just  like  the 
one  I  heard  last  night  beyond  the  gate.  I  cannot 
explain  that,  but  the  laugh  last  night  and  that  in 
the  dream  were  just  the  same. 

"I  dreamed  twice  that  she  called  on  me  to  help. 


The  Black  Devil  257 

Yes,  she  called  to  me  just  as  plain  as  you  are  sitting 
there.  When  I  rode  out  on  the  range  next  morning, 
feeling  pretty  glum  because  no  one  was  thinking  the 
way  I  was,  or  doing  the  way  I  wanted  to  do,  or  even 
thinking  about  what  I  wanted  to  do,  up  skurried 
that  killdeer.  It  went  screaming  around  me  with 
fiercer  cries  than  ever  before.  It  circled  around  me 
twice  and  then  lit  not  far  in  front.  As  it  slid  with 
shaking  wings  along  the  ground,  as  they  all  do  some- 
times, it  said  '  kill-kill-kill.'  That  cry  was  different 
and  was  meant  for  me." 

"Well,"  said  I,  as  he  had  stopped,  "what  did  you 
think  then  ?  " 

"  I  said  that  when  I  grew  up  I  would  hunt  for 
that  man  that  made  her  scream,  and  call  for  me. 
I'm  going  to  hunt  and  get  that  man  that  had  that 
laugh,  and  if  I  found  him," — he  came  close  to  me, 
his  eyes  blazing, — "  I  would  kill  him,  kill  him,  kill 
him  as  a  hawk  tears  at  a  skunk." 

I  was  startled  with  his  vengeful  intensity.  His 
fingers  were  clutched  like  talons,  his  face  was  pale 
with  malignity  and  his  breath  came  in  gusts. 

"  Skid,"  I  said,  shocked,  "  you  have  a  very  black 
guest  in  your  soul,  that  I  knew  nothing  of."  We 
walked  the  room  together,  he  trying  to  repress  his 
feelings  and  as  if  waiting  for  something  else  from 
me.  He  was  carrying  a  black  burden  that  he  could 
not  hold,  and  was  afraid  to  let  it  go.  He  seemed 
to  wait  for  me  to  ask  him  more.  I  tried  to  calm 
him  and  divert  his  mind. 

"  Lie  down  on  your  lounge  again,  Skid.     I  want 


258  At  the  Greysons' 

to  talk  to  you."    Obediently,  but  sighing,  he  stretched 
out  again. 

I  sat  and  coolly  said:  "Skid,  I  see  you  are  super- 
stitious. That  means  you  have  the  passions  of  igno- 
rance unawakened  or  guarded  by  everyday  common 
sense.  You  have  a  dark  rusty  spot  in  your  soul. 
There's  only  one  way  to  get  it  off.  Read,  study, 
have  the  Judge  tell  you  what  is  right  and  wrong  in 
law.  Then  try  to  think  out  what  is  right  and  wrong 
yourself." 

"  Should  I  not  kill  the  devil  who  killed  her?  " 

Again  I  was  shocked,  he  was  so  tempestuously 
vengeful.  I  maintained  my  serenity  as  well  as  I 
could. 

"  No,  Skid,  of  course  not.  You  are  not  the  gov- 
ernment, not  the  executioner  of  the  law.  There  are 
several  others  who  are.  We  chose  them.  It's  per- 
fectly proper  for  you  and  me  to  hunt  out  the  evi- 
dence, give  it  to  a  jury,  and  hire  the  killing  done. 
The  sheriff  does  that.  Just  remember  that.  I  am 
with  you  in  this  thing.  We  will  find  the  man  if 
we  can.  But  two  things:  Don't  disgrace  me:  Don't 
disgrace  your  mother." 

I  rose.  "  Skid,  you  stay  around  here  for  half  an 
hour.  I  am  going  to  see  the  Judge.  Maybe  I  will 
have  something  to  tell  you  when  I  come  back.  Tele- 
phone the  house  I  will  not  be  down  for  luncheon; 
if  I  can  get  the  Judge  to  accept,  he  and  I  will  dine 
here.  You  make  an  excuse  to  go  home  when  I  come 
back."  I  went  to  the  door.  There  was  a  longing, 
wistful  look  in  his  face.  I  understood.  As  he  came 


The  Black  Devil  259 

near  I  threw  my  arm  around  his  shoulder  and  said 
in  a  low  voice  in  his  ear:  "Keep  that  black  devil 
out  of  your  soul,  or  he  will  strangle  your  manhood. 
I  think  you  are  the  finest  lad  on  earth  and  believe 
in  you.  Get  the  Judge  to  post  you  for  a  few  months 
on  what  is  right  and  wrong,  about  this  thing  called 
vengeance."  Then  I  went  out. 

I  had  been  in  the  Judge's  office  nearly  half  an 
hour  when  at  the  end  of  an  earnest  moment  I  asked, 

"Judge,  who  is  Robert  Greyson?" 

"  I  knew  that  was  coming  sometime,  and  I  must 
tell  you  before  my  nerve  deserts  me.  I  looked  over 
the  certified  copies  in  a  New  York  case,  and  find 
that  Robert  Greyson  must  have  been  released  last 
March.  He  has  been  the  black  spot  in  my  peace 
and  life  till  seven  years  ago,  when  he  was  sent  up 
to  Dannemora  for  ten  years.  He  was  the  second 
son,  illegitimate,  of  my  first  wife,  who  was  a  widow 
with  a  son,  Lem  Greyson.  Neither  Lem  nor  this 
Robert  Greyson  is  of  my  blood  or  flesh.  I  had  loved 
my  first  wife  dearly,  but  Bob  was  too  much.  I  kept 
the  scandal  quiet  and  tried  to  raise  him  right.  She 
died  when  he  was  young.  When  she  was  dead  a 
year  or  so,  I  adopted  Claire  Ballard,  a  sweet  orphan 
who  grew  up  a  good  and  beautiful  daughter. 

u  Robert,  Bob  I  always  called  him,  was  congeni- 
tally  crooked  as  a  corkscrew.  One  scrape  after  an- 
other had  to  be  settled  for.  As  he  got  older  he  got 
more  brazen  and  more  calloused.  When  Bob  was 
seventeen,  Lem  about  nineteen,  and  Claire  fifteen,  I 
married  my  present  wife.  I  was  a  rising  lawyer, 


260  At  the  Greysons' 

and  had  my  eye  set  pretty  high.  I  moved  out  of 
the  East  and  settled  in  this  city.  Lem  had  been 
caught  stealing  horses  down  in  Logansport  while 
with  a  half-cousin  of  Bob's  who  is  a  smooth  article 
and  preaches  after  a  particularly  criminal  deed.  Bob 
himself  I  sent  to  a  sporting  academy,  and  he  became 
the  finest  athlete  in  the  school.  He  went  to  Europe, 
traded  on  my  name,  got  in  prison  and  when  he  came 
back  fell  desperately  in  love  with  Claire. 

"  Instead  of  its  making  a  man  out  of  him  he  went 
half  crazy  with  jealousy.  Then  Claire  ran  away 
with  a  poor  beggar  named  A.  C.  Mason,  and  you 
know  the  rest  of  her  history  as  well  as  I  do.  There 
is  no  doubt  in  my  mind  that  Bob  and  Claire's  hus- 
band know  all  about  what  became  of  her.  I  believe 
the  man  that  Skid  chased  is  Bob.  I  have  already 
put  the  detective  department  in  motion.  There  is 
another  felony  indictment  hanging  over  him.  It  is 
revived.  If  I  catch  him  he  will  tell  me  what  I  want 
to  know."  There  was  a  dangerous  look  in  the  Judge's 
eye. 

I  told  the  Judge  what  had  occurred  between  Skid 
and  myself  at  the  hotel.  He  looked  very  grave. 

"  That  is  a  very  difficult  thing  to  manage,  Colonel. 
There  must  be  something  in  his  mind  that  you  and 
I  know  nothing  about.  We  ought  to  know.  From 
your  description  I  think  he  was  on  the  borderland 
of  saying  more  yet.  I  have  had  a  good  many  men 
confess  to  me  after  conviction.  I  feel  sure  there  is 
more  than  superstition  to  move  him  so  deeply.  It 
is  not  humanly  natural.  First  we  must  raise  him 


The  Black  Devil  261 

out  of  his  false  perspectives.  A  laugh  in  a  dream 
and  a  real  laugh  thousands  of  miles  away  being 
similar  are  out  of  the  reach  of  reason;  can  not  be  true 
in  any  way  I  look  at  it.  A  killdeer  screaming  '  kill ' 
driving  a  determination  to  kill  a  man  is  too  unreal 
for  sense.  But  there  is  something  below  all  this  on 
which  these  hallucinations  are  based.  We  will  know 
some  day.  No  man  can  be  a  wit,  a  humorous  soul, 
without  seeing  the  incongruities  of  substance  and 
shadow.  It's  his  humor  that  keeps  him  sane.  It's 
more  than  superstition  that  shakes  him. 

"  But  I  agree  with  you;  we  must  edge  in  and  split 
out  these  emotional  knots,  and  get  a  growth  of 
straighter  grain.  I'll  teach  him  as  you  told  him,  in 
this." 

I  returned  to  Skid  and  told  him  pretty  fully  what 
the  Judge  had  related  about  his  family  history.  I 
said  that  he  should  make  excuse  to  the  family,  as 
the  Judge  and  I  were  to  finish  some  business  and  dine 
uptown. 

As  he  was  about  to  leave  me  he  came  up  and  said, 
"  And  father  too?  "  I  shall  never  forget  the  torment 
in  those  tones. 

A  moment  later  he  went  home. 


CHAPTER  XII 
WHEN  A  MAN  DOES  HIS  DUTY 

MY  dining  with  Judge  Greyson  was  rather  cheer- 
less. We  had  too  many  misapprehensions,  too  many 
misgivings,  and  even  our  plan  as  to  what  we  should 
do  filled  us  with  unrest.  After  we  had  parted  for 
the  afternoon,  I  was  meditating  on  all  that  the  day 
had  brought  forth.  What  was  the  best  thing  to 
do  at  once,  I  asked  myself  over  and  over  again.  I 
thought  of  Tootsie,  perhaps  she  could  help.  But 
if  I,  to  whom  Skid  seemed  so  grateful,  so  affectionate, 
could  not  drive  a  murderous  intention  out  of  his 
heart,  could  she? 

I  concluded  at  last  to  have  another  simple  talk 
with  Skid  that  afternoon,  and  to  make  the  oppor- 
tunity I  went  with  a  very  high  purpose  to  the  Grey- 
son  home.  I  dislike  those  who  do  things  that  look 
well  in  print,  and  ascribe  it  to  duty.  Every  un- 
covered religious  fraud  calls  up  "  duty."  Politicians 
have  it  ever  ready  at  their  tongue's  end.  More  than 
once  I  have  damned  this  ancient,  striped  word  so 
full  of  punk  and  holiness.  For  once  in  my  life  I 
knew  I  was  going  to  do  my  duty  if  the  heavens 
careened.  And  I  would  do  my  duty  that  very  after- 
noon and  keep  it  to  myself. 

262 


When  a  Man  Does  His  Duty         263 

Doing  one's  duty  incites  grave  looks,  especially  if 
the  duty  comes  along  the  moral  heights.  I  had  al- 
ways found  it  quite  easy  to  give  advice;  it  came  so 
natural.  A  successful  business  man  is  nearly  always 
brimming  with  it,  markedly  so,  for  those  who  have 
no  bank  accounts.  And  my  particular  brand  of  ad- 
vice seemed  (to  me)  so  peculiarly  sound.  I  deter- 
mined I  would  tell  my  protege  a  few  hard,  cold  facts 
that  would  make  him  see  the  way  to  go. 

I  was  grave  of  course,  but  not  sour.  I  am  no 
bigot.  I  sallied  forth  to  the  Greyson  home  at  two 
o'clock.  I  knew  just  what  I  was  going  to  say,  even 
to  the  expression,  the  emphasis — studied  out  the  place 
where  I  should  smile,  the  place  where  I  should  look 
paternal,  the  place  where  my  countenance  would 
carry  volumes.  That  kind  of  advice  has  weight, 
significance  and  perhaps  other  things. 

When  I  got  to  the  Greyson  gate  I  paused.  I  could 
not  resist  the  sensation  that  I  was  a  little  perturbed. 
Really  "  duty  "  has  several  definitions.  I  have  met 
people  who  have  mixed  things  in  giving  advice  and 
drew  blood  instead  of  honey.  Perturbed!  No;  I 
should  look  gay.  I  tapped  lightly  on  the  gate,  hesi- 
tated, there  was  no  need  of  hurrying  about  the  mat- 
ter. I  put  my  hand  on  the  latch,  partly  opened  the 
gate.  Then  I  closed  it  from  the  outside.  What 
a  long  street  that  was  I  had  come  along!  No;  I 
had  forgotten  nothing;  there  was  no  use  to  go  back 
to  the  hotel  and  get  my  rough  advice  notes.  I 
reviewed  and  again  determined  the  expression,  the 
emphasis  and  perhaps  the  accents.  Skid  was 


264  At  the  Greysons' 

such  a  foolish  mortal  about  that  infernal  kill- 
deer. 

I  shut  my  teeth,  unlatched  the  gate  and  went  in. 
I  stopped  and  fanned  myself — it  was  very  warm  for 
June. 

"Good-afternoon,  Colonel  French;  you  seem 
troubled."  In  heaven's  name !  Troubled?  It  was 
Alice's  soft  voice,  as  musical  as  the  first  bluebird's 
gurgle  in  spring.  Ah!  Alice  my  savior!  She  was 
the  one  to  help  me,  blessed  inspiration  and  happy 
chance!  We  seated  ourselves  under  an  ivy 
vine. 

"  What  seems  to  stop  the  pleasant  current  of  your 
thoughts,  Colonel?" 

I  thought  to  lash  out  "  duty  "  at  once,  but  I  said, 
"  I'm  thinking  of  Skid.  What,  er — that  is  what 
do  you  think  of  him  for,  er!  as  a  lover?  " 

Those  are  my  exact  words  to  her.  I  had  no  in- 
tention of  saying  anything  like  the  last  part  of  that 
at  all.  Considering  the  relations  between  her  and 
Skid, — the  toolbench  episode,  the  theater  malady, 
such  a  question  was  nothing  short  of  conversational 
idiocy.  She  knew  that  Skid  and  I  were  intimate. 
How  much  had  he  told  me?  She  might  have  thought 
I  was  drawing  serious  conclusions  about  them.  Per- 
haps she  had  seen  how  perturbed  I  had  been  a  minute 
before.  She  might  have  deemed  something  very  im- 
portant and  grave  was  in  the  air.  Perhaps  Skid  him- 
self had  told  me  grave  secrets  about  his  regard  for 
her.  Perhaps, — oh!  perhaps  anything. 

But  I  had  now  recovered  a  part  of  my  wonted 


When  a  Man  Does  His  Duty         265 

sanity.  I  would  gracefully  retire  to  more  solid  foot- 
ing. One  sometimes  does  say  things  exactly  oppo- 
site in  meaning  from  the  intention,  especially  when 
one,  being  agitated,  gets  a  strangle  hold  on  his 
"  duty." 

Several  emotions  had  flashed  through  her  face,  as 
I  was  turning  my  misfit  interrogation  over  in  my 
mind,  estimating  its  damages.  She  was  surprised, 
puzzled,  somewhat  indignant;  then  a  rapid  sweep  of 
womanly  dignity  hardened  her  features  a  little.  Just 
as  rapidly  all  gave  way  to  an  amused  tiny  laugh.  She 
had  donned  her  maidenly  armor  and  assumed  the  safe 
side  of  things. 

"  Really,  Colonel  French,  I  could  not  conceive  of 
Skid  Puffer  as  a  lover.  I  do  not  believe  he  ever  felt 
the  passion  or  would  know  it  if  he  saw  it."  Then  she 
waited  for  me.  She  now  looked  me  very  honestly 
in  the  face.  I  felt  like  a  conversational  impostor, 
or  something  like  that.  So  I  began  to  retreat  to 
secure  footing  and  incidentally  nail  down  unobserved 
the  raw  edges  of  my  lingual  break. 

"  Would  it  surprise  you,  Miss  Alice,  if  I  told  you 
he  was  in  love?"  Of  course  I  wanted  to  know  a 
little  thing  like  that  while  I  was  retreating,  and  when 
safe,  come  back  with  my  "  duty  "  resolves  intact. 
She  answered  instantly:  "  Nothing  could  surprise  me 
more.  Is  he  in  love  with — some  one?" 

I  was  a  little  disconcerted  by  the  quick  response 
and  question.  I  was  also  astonished,  for  I  saw  a 
flash  of  pain  on  her  face.  I  was  rambling  now,  not 
driveling,  just  rambling.  There  were  too  many  ends 


266  At  the  Greysons' 

to  my  purpose;  there  were  too  many  divagations 
from  the  line  at  issue,  which  of  course  was  "  duty," 
plain,  cold,  beloved  "duty"  first,  last  and  some  of 
the  time. 

"  Have  you  no  idea  with  whom  he  could  fall  in 
love,  Miss  Alice? "  I  accidentally  emphasized 
"you."  I  should  have  accented  "fall"  instead. 
I  realized  at  once  now  and  fully  that  Xenophon  had 
once  made  a  better  retreat  out  of  difficulties.  I  had 
retreated  of  course  somewhere,  and  found  myself  up 
against  a  stone  wall.  The  extra  issue  at  hand  was  a 
separate  full-fledged  affair  of  its  own.  So  to  give 
us  time  to  think, — or  perhaps  she  was  the  only  per- 
son present  who  was  thinking, — I  became  humor- 
ous and  asked  knowingly,  "  What  about  Tippy 
Shurk?" 

Ah,  at  last  the  secret  was  out.  Could  she  believe 
her  senses?  That  was  what  had  so  disturbed 
my  troubled  soul.  I  felt  that  she  was  amazed, 
gaping  at  me,  wondering  perhaps  if  she  were 
awake. 

"Tippy  Shurk!"  She  did  not  scream,  though  I 
might  have  expected  it.  I  had  never  seen  Tippy, 
never  heard  of  her  but  twice,  and  I  am  sure  Skid 
never  mentioned  her  to  me  in  his  life. 

Then  when  I  was  wondering  how  I  should  get 
out  of  my  conversation  corral,  which  was  apparently 
very  high,  with  the  exits  padlocked  and  the  keys 
lost,  I  heard  again,  "  Tippy  Shurk?  " 

Yes,  it  was  Tippy's  great  love,  undyingly  warm, 
that  was  disturbing  the  atmosphere  of  the  Greyson 


When  a  Man  Does  His  Duty         267 

dooryard.  Then  I  bravely,  brazenly  looked  at  Alice 
Greyson.  It  was  my  duty,  I  think,  that  enabled  me 
to  do  that.  I  can  not  describe  the  look  of  astonish- 
ment, the  stopping  of  the  breath,  the  sharp  accent 
of  the  eyebrows,  the  shocked  little  jerks  backward 
of  her  shoulders,  that  entire  oppugnancy  she 
presented.  Of  course  I  indicated  by  an  affirm- 
ative little  bob  that  she  had  the  name  right  at 
least. 

"  Tippy  Shurk  is  not  half  good  enough  for  Skid 
Puffer,  Colonel  French."  What!  Her  words  were 
bitter.  "He  is  a  genius,  a  man  who  will  have  a 
great  name  in  the  world  some  time.  I'd  rather  see 
him  dead  than  married  to  such  a  girl  as  she.  Or 
any  girl  I  ever  saw,  for  that  matter.  Why,  I  am 
amazed.  I  never  thought — how  did  you  know? 
Did  he  tell  you — and — oh,  it  is  perfectly  dreadful !  " 
I  saw  that  she  had  a  secret  locked  up  in  the  deepest 
chambers  of  her  heart. 

She  rose  nervously  and  turned  her  back  as  she 
pretended  to  look  at  an  ivy  bud,  if  there  is  such  a 
thing.  There's  a  divinity  that  shapes  our  means, 
rough  hew  them  as  we  will  not.  I  saw  her  trembling 
there  with  her  back  to  me.  I  saw,  thank  heaven! 
Tootsie  and  Skid  running  toward  us,  their  faces 
aglow  with  excitement. 

"Oh,  Uncle  French!  Think  of  it!  Skid  has 
made  the  six-foot  bar  twice  out  of  seven  times.  Seven 
attempts.  Shout !  fire  the  guns,  fling  the  starry  ban- 
ner out !  Charge,  Chester,  charge !  shout,  six  feet 
clear  till — Skid,  where's  them  Hundred  Selexuns  ?  " 


268  At  the  Greysons' 

And  she  jumped  at  Alice  and  kissed  her.  Then  we 
started  for  the  gymnasium. 

I  managed  to  say  privately  to  Alice,  "Wait  till  I 
see  you  alone.  I  want  to  explain  more." 

And  the  great  love  of  Tippy  Shurk  for  Skid  Puffer 
is  one  of  the  "  duty  "  spots  in  my  life. 


CHAPTER  XIII 


IF  this  book  were  a  novel  I  should  then  have  more 
constructive  sway  and  could  without  a  blush  endow 
the  people  of  these  pages  with  all  manner  of  graces 
and  perfections.  It  would  be  easy  to  smooth  out 
a  real  record's  unmendable  jarring  with  imagination's 
literary  lubricity,  but  a  chronicler,  as  I  am  for  the 
most  part,  must  not  escape.  It  is  a  failing  of  modern 
pens  to  carve  out  our  literary  statuettes  from  the 
raw  ideal  into  the  romantic  real  to  grace  a  publisher's 
holiday. 

The  most  that  I  can  do  is  to  make  my  hero  and 
heroines  fictionally  true.  I  can  not,  like  an  historical 
novelist,  unmake  mountains  if  they  bar  the  course, 
or  run  my  rivers  dry  if  they  should  flood  the  facts. 
My  compassion  or  imagination  shall  not  chisel  out 
a  new  topography,  nor  induce  me  to  cover  up  the 
shortcomings  of  my  characters.  It  is  no  fault  of 
mine  that  I  tell  of  an  unhappy  event  in  Indiana's 
unwritten  history. 

It  was  midnight  at  the  Greyson  mansion,  and  In- 
diana's beauty,  chivalry  and  a  stringed  and  a  brass 
band  were  there.  Stray  inhabitants  of  contiguous 

269 


270  At  the  Greysons' 

political  territory  and  outer  society  colonizations 
were  also  there  to  increase  the  shine,  the  swell  and 
the  expense.  It  was  Associate  Justice  Greyson's 
coming  out  at  sixty  years  of  age.  The  reporters 
with  their  hereditary  Americanese  were  there.  The 
snap-shot  lens,  the  coyote  of  photography,  was  there 
also.  And  that  pampered  miscreant,  the  flashlight 
man,  for  awhile  was  the  observed  of  all  observers, 
and  gracefully  scented  up  an  acre  of  inclosed  gran- 
deur. 

I  can  not  take  space  nor  time,  though  I  have  abun- 
dance of  both,  to  tell  as  the  newspaper  reporters 
told  it,  how  the  "  music  crashed,"  how  "  they  skipped 
the  light  fantastic  till  the  wee  sma'  hours,"  how  the 
"  appointments  were  superb,"  how  "  the  lights  shone 
on  fair  women  and  brave  men,"  how  the  "  spacious 
lawns  were  a  fairy  land  of  scenic  beauty";  and  I 
shall  not  give  the  list  of  "  otfrer  notabilities  present." 
Of  course  the  Associate  Justice  was  "  deeply  affected 
by  the  speeches  and  genuine  outburst  of  good  feeling 
and  manifest  affection  of  his  guests  "  and  "  the  attire 
of  the  ladies  present  was  as  follows  " — for  three 
columns. 

This  is  not  a  Whitman  catalogue. 

In  the  two  dozen  columns  of  poor  newspaper  cuts 
and  reportorial  English  of  five  newspapers,  and  the 
two-inch  despatch  of  the  Associated  Press,  there  was 
not  an  allusion  to  one  of  the  vital  incidents  of  the 
"  gorgeous  affair,"  this  "  notable  function,"  this 
11  brilliant  occasion."  That  event  was  a  stiff  fight 
between  two  of  the  guests. 


The  Lights  Shone  on  Fair  Women     271 

About  midnight  the  guests  promenading  and  spoil- 
ing the  lawns  and  disrupting  the  flower  beds  under  a 
thousand  ugly  Chinese  lanterns,  or  ensconced  in  pairs 
in  romantic  spots,  all,  from  the  stiff  and  swelling  im- 
portance of  Indiana's  Colonel  of  Cavalry,  Colonel 
Armstrong,  with  his  braided  orderlies,  down  to  the 
obtrusively  dressed  timidity  of  maidens,  shy  as  little 
rabbits  nibbling  clover  all  atremble  along  the  hedges 
at  sundown,  were  startled  by  a  healthy,  feminine 
scream,  just  as  the  town  clock  struck  twelve.  But 
the  clock  had  nothing  to  do  with  it.  Nearly  all  town 
clocks  strike  twelve  during  the  night,  whatever  the 
time  may  be.  This  Indianapolis  town  clock  was  a 
part  of  the  dramatic  setting. 

In  thirty  or  forty  seconds  after,  a  half-acre  flock 
of  feminine  loveliness,  in  varying  stages  of  undressed 
dressiness,  were  surging,  ejaculating,  screaming, 
fainting  and  trying  to  faint  around  two  lithe  giants  in 
evening  dress  who  were  fighting  on  an  open  gravel 
spot  near  the  aviary.  And  among  them  was  nobody 
except  myself  that  dared  to  interfere. 

But  a  firm  voice  came  back  at  me,  "  Keep  away, 
Colonel,  I  can  manage  this  thief.  Keep  those  women 
still." 

Two  men  agile  as  tigers  were  trying  to  kill  each 
other.  There  were  flashing  and  ducking  and  heavy 
thuds  of  fists  on  waistcoats.  There  was  no  pulling, 
gouging,  clawing,  but  there  was  springing  back  and 
twisting  under;  mis-strokes,  hits,  blows,  of  very  angry 
gentlemen. 

The  intruder  was  crowding  Skid  back  with  genteel 


272  At  the  GreysonV 

fury.  Thud,  thud,  thud,  went  white  fists  crashing 
hard  on  exposed  breastworks.  A  shift;  crack  went 
a  hard,  white  fist  to  the  stranger's  right  cheek.  The 
blood  flew  all  over  his  white  shirt.  A  second's 
wavering  pause.  Then  he  came  on  with  a  rush. 
There  were  blockings,  shifts,  and  crash  came  a  bunch 
of  knuckles  into  Skid  Puffer's  immaculate  shirt  front. 
He  stumbled  backward  several  feet  and  sat  down 
hard. 

He  jumped  up  and  they  came  together  like  fight- 
ing rams.  I  did  not  see  exactly  what  was  done  for 
a  few  seconds.  Then  I  saw  a  bent  whirl  to  the 
right  of  head  and  shoulder,  a  short,  left-curve,  hook- 
ing thrust  shoot  under  the  right  arm  of  the  stranger. 
It  had  the  stroke  power  of  a  small  engine.  He  be- 
gan to  buckle  and  slowly  sink,  and  Skid  stood  there 
waiting  perhaps  five  seconds  to  see  him  drop  to  the 
ground  at  his  feet.  Then  with  the  quickness  of  a 
steel  beartrap  up  came  the  sinking  man,  and  out 
flashed  a  fist  that  struck  Skid  Puffer  at  the  top  of 
his  chest.  Skid  Puffer  went  unheroically  backward 
ten  feet  and  was  picked  up  quite  dazed  while  the 
thief,  gathering  his  gloves,  hat  and  overcoat,  walked 
calmly  down  the  driveway. 

Not  a  word  of  this  affair  got  into  the  newspapers. 
And  "  the  leaders  of  fashion  there  "  so  managed  that 
the  ball,  the  flirting,  the  heartburning,  everything, 
went  on  as  merrily  as  ever  after  awhile. 

It  was  three  o'clock  in  the  morning  and  every 
guest  had  gone,  when  Skid  Puffer  told  the  Judge  and 
me  in  the  library  how  the  thing  happened.  He  and 


The  Lights  Shone  on  Fair  Women     273 

Alice  had  been  promenading  on  the  lawns;  and  the 
music  commencing  again,  they  were  starting  to  go 
in.  Nearly  all  the  guests  were  in  the  house.  The 
outside  places  were  vacant  and  still. 

"  I  saw  Alice  start  and  point  to  that  English  ivy 
fan  inclosure  near  the  west  window.  I  looked  and 
saw  a  man.  He  did  not  act  as  a  guest  would.  He 
was  in  evening  dress  though.  I  told  Alice  to  wait 
a  moment  and  I  ran  softly  up  and  looked  in.  He 
was  bareheaded,  and  I  started  to  apologize  as  he 
turned  calmly  around.  But  I  saw  his  silk  hat,  over- 
coat and  gloves  on  the  seat.  Then  I  knew  he  had 
no  right  to  be  there. 

"  I  was  angry  at  once.  '  Get  out  of  here,  you 
sneak,'  I  said,  hot  as  a  coal.  He  bowed  low,  grandly 
low,  picked  up  his  hat,  coat  and  gloves,  and  I  stood 
aside  for  him  to  pass  me.  Just  after  he  passed  me, 
I  half  turned  as  I  heard  the  swish  of  skirts,  and 
Alice  came  running  up.  Then  quick  as  a  cat  stroke 
at  a  mouse,  he  slapped  me.  There  must  be  iron 
spikes  in  his  fingers.  It  was  hard  enough  to  knock 
a  post  over.  It  was  not  a  fist  blow,  just  a  lightning 
slap. 

"  He  was  walking  calmly  away  when  I  came  to. 
I  made  one  jump,  I  suppose  about  a  dozen  feet,  and 
struck  him  in  the  back  of  the  head.  He  fell  for- 
ward on  his  hands.  He  whirled  up,  dropped  every- 
thing and  put  on  the  wickedest  face  I  ever  saw. 
Then  Alice  raised  her  gentle  voice  in  a  Comanche 
death  yell. 

"  Of  course  I  had  expected  him  to  jump  up  and 


274  At  the  Greysons' 

fly.  The  gentleman  wasn't  flying  just  then  except 
towards  me.  You  know  the  rest. 

"  But,  Skid,  you  had  him  going,  I  don't  under- 
stand, er — "  I  hesitated. 

"  I  understand  perfectly,  Colonel,"  answered  Skid, 
looking  foolish.  "He  took  about  five  seconds  to 
stall,  throwing  me  off  my  guard.  Then  he  came  up 
good  and  strong  with  that  knockout.  That's  what 
a  fellow  gets  sometimes  when  the  other  fellow  stalls." 

There  was  much  discussion,  guessing  and  theoriz- 
ing. "What  do  you  think,  my  son?"  asked  the 
Judge  when  the  subject  was  exhausted. 

"  I  shall  meet  this  gentleman  again.  I  will  do 
the  stalling  then,"  said  Skid. 


ALONG  THE  EDGES  OF  DANGER 

"  WHAT  made  you  scream  and  bring  the  whole 
crowd  on  the  run  last  night  while  I  was  doing  the 
pug  act,  Alice?  "  This  harsh  question  was  addressed 
to  Alice  as  Skid  met  her  on  the  walk  in  the  rear 
of  the  house  the  morning  after  the  banquet.  He 
looked  almost  serene  enough,  and  there  was  a  smile 
in  his  face,  but  an  unpleasant  gleam  was  in  his  eyes. 
She  was  on  the  defensive  at  once. 

"  I  saw  him  strike  you.  When  I  saw  him  come 
back  with  that  malicious  twist  in  his  face,  of  course  I 
was  alarmed,  I  screamed."  She  was  eying  him 
keenly,  measuring  his  displeasure. 

"  Adding  to  the  gaiety  of  the  town?  " 

"Skid!  "  she  said  reproachfully. 

"  Oh,  I  suppose  you  thought  I  needed  help.  It 
did  look  that  way."  He  turned  and  was  walking 
to  the  study  rooms;  why  not?  He  had  started  for 
that  place  before  he  had  met  her. 

"  Oh,  naturally  a  sister  does  not  want  to  see  her 
brother  beat  up.  Of  course  I  screamed.  I  could 
not  fight  him,  and  I  do  just  love  to  scream."  He 
paused;  he  liked  that. 

275 


276  At  the  Greysons' 

"  Do  you  know  who  he  is,  Alice?  Ever  see  him 
before?" 

"He's  an  entire  stranger.  I  have  wondered  all 
night  about  him.  What  do  you  believe?  " 

"  He's  the  fellow  that  I  ran  a  foot-race  with  last 
April.  The  going  was  a  little  slow  on  my  part 
then,  but  June  opens  with  a  fast  track." 

"  Now,  Skid,  do  not  be  pert.  I  am  much  con- 
cerned; I  am  really  alarmed."  She  looked  very 
charming  in  her  sympathy.  He  came  up,  and  lock- 
ing his  arm  within  hers  (to  her  great  surprise),  they 
went  still  farther  back  and  sat  in  a  bower  near  the 
tennis  grounds.  She  tried  to  look  serene,  but  she 
was  nervously  twisting  and  untwisting  the  end  of  a 
belt  ribbon  around  her  quite  ladylike  thumb. 

"  With  gymnasium  and  road  work  I  think  he  will 
hand  me  his  card." 

"Card?" 

"Yes;  if  I  practise  thumping,  jumping  and  run- 
ning a  few  months  more,  I  can  jump  further,  hit 
harder  and  run  faster.  Then  maybe  I  will  hit  hard 
enough  for  him  to  recover,  so  that  he  can  hand  me 
his  visiting  card.  Takes  time,  Alice."  He  was 
laughing  silently. 

"  Oh,  Skid,  you  may  get  killed.  That  was  an 
awful  rap." 

"  Alice,"  and  he  rolled  his  eyes  drolly,  "  I  am 
much  concerned;  I  am  really  alarmed." 

"  You  are  horrid  this  morning,  Skid.  Suppose 
I'd  weep  now?  "  And  she  looked  with  just  enough 
mock  seriousness  to  hide  her  feelings. 


Along  the  Edges  of  Danger          277 

"What  do  you  think  Toot  said,  Alice?  "  and  he 
chuckled  delightedly. 

"  How  should  I  know?  "  Alice  answered  coldly. 

"  She  said,  '  Skid,  in  the  next  exhibition  of  evening 
dress  fisticuffs,  don't  let  the  other  fellow  stall  or  he'll 
get  you  sure,  if  you  don't  watch  out.' ' 

"  Tootsie !  Where  did  she  get  that  sporting 
slang?"  Alice  looked  quite  severe.  Skid  looked 
happy  and  leaned  back  in  the  shade  at  peace  with 
all  the  world. 

"Where  did  you  learn  it,  Alice?"  asked  Skid, 
looking  at  the  gurgling  martins  in  their  toyhouse. 
She  was  about  to  deny  that  she  knew  any  disreputable 
language,  though  she  had  passed  condemnation  on 
some.  She  parried  with  a  tiny  exasperate  twirl  of 
her  lip. 

"  What  did  Tippy  Shurk  say?  "  She  asked  that 
evenly,  but  with  defiant  heart.  He  brightened  ani- 
matedly, sat  erect,  his  eyes  shining. 

"  When  I  was  alone  in  the  upper  library  Miss 
Shurk  held  out  her  hand  and  said,  '  Mr.  Puffer,  you 
fought  like  a  gentleman;  you  are  his  master.'  Oh, 
yes,  I  forgot,  she  said  she  did  not  scream  once." 

"Is  Tippy  interested  in  pugilism  too?"  Skid 
felt  the  unpleasant  stroke  against  the  grain.  He 
remembered  his  gymnasium  and  stood  up. 

"  How  is  Tippy  anyway,  Skid?  She  is  so  gushy 
and  I  had  almost  said  '  sporty '  since  she's  been  in 
the  classes,  why,  I  really  do  not  know  what  to  think 
of  her."  Skid  sat  down  in  sheer  astonishment.  He 
had  never  conceived  the  modest  Tippy  Shurk  as 


278  At  the  Greysons' 

gushy  and  "  sporty,"  and  he  was  trying  to  think  that 
out.  Alice  looked  discouragingly  unsocial,  but  smil- 
ing and  picked  at  her  belt. 

"  Alice,  what  have  you  up  your  kimona  this  morn- 
ing?" She  evidently  did  not  object  to  slang  if  the 
tone  and  glance  were  good  English. 

"Now,  Skid,  don't  you  think  so?"  She  seemed 
cheerful  now.  A  bantering  smile  flashed  through 
her  face.  She  looked  very  charming  as  Skid  tried 
to  find  the  bearings  of  her  question. 

"  Why,  Skid,  brother  dear,  to  tell  the  truth,  she's 
just  the  woman  I've  picked  out  for  you.  She  isn't 
exactly  gushy,  she  is  what  is  called  new.  She's 
poetic,  has  beautiful  teeth  which  she  shows  so-o 
easily;  and  besides  being  rich,  or  will  be,  dearly  loves 
a  man  who  can  knock  a  tree  over."  Her  sudden 
changeful  mood,  her  physical  luxury  and  charms 
made  him  look  softly  into  her  exquisite  face.  He 
now  believed  he  had  never  seen  her  look  so  inviting 
before.  Perhaps  he  felt  the  first  obscure  touch  of 
gender. 

His  eyes  grew  very  tender;  he  thought  of  that 
barbarous  time  when  he  had  thrust  his  forehead  into 
her  cheek  (under  the  eaves  of  the  toolhouse  in  the 
Puffer  dooryard).  Her  heart  rushed  the  red  cur- 
rents faster  and  suffused  her  with  love's  incompre- 
hensible glow. 

"  Alice,  you'd  better  behave  or  you  shan't  play  in 
my  playhouse  any  more."  He  said  that  so  drolly, 
so  childlike,  that  she  said  in  that  peculiar  full- 
throated,  babying  voice  one  sometimes  hears: 


Along  the  Edges  of  Danger          279 

"  Oh,  forgive  you  ittie;  wootsie  thisther,  she  ith 
tho  thorry  for  ittie  Tippie,  her  brotherth  thweet- 
heart."  Yes;  Alice  Gareen  Greyson,  nearly  twenty- 
one  years  old,  after  the  ball  was  over,  delivered  that. 

"  Alice,  if  you  have  no  objections  I  would  dearly 
love  to  kiss  you,"  said  Skid.  Her  assumptions  were 
snuffed  at  once.  She  had  more  than  she  could  man- 
age. She  had  never  kissed  him  but  once  in  her 
life,  and  that  a  penitential  one.  But  now  he  looked 
so  big  and  brave  and  handsome  that  she  did  not 
know  how  much  she  had  been  vanquished.  She  said 
with  a  roguish  look,  but  quivering  chin : 

"  'Ware  your  old  tricks,  my  swamp  angel !  "  He 
shut  his  admiring  eyes  and  saw  in  retrospection  an 
enchanting  school  teacher  leaving  him  in  his  despair 
in  Abe  Puffer's  dooryard. 

"  Sunsets  of  milk  and  roses  and  gold.  You  told 
me  never  to  kiss  a  woman  against  her  will.  Are 
you  willing?  " 

She  threw  her  arms  about  his  neck  and  kissed  him 
passionately  and  was  a  little  too  long  getting  away. 
She  was  covered  with  the  charming  confusion  of 
maidenly  reaction, — besides,  she  was  inexperienced 
in  love  affairs.  And  Skid,  though  a  little  surprised 
with  her  ardency,  was  as  blind  as  an  adder.  He 
placarded  this  danger  edge  by  saying : 

"  Somehow,  Alice,  you  make  me  more  bashful 
than  when  I  kiss  Tootsie."  Then  Skid  Puffer  went 
to  his  gymnasium  whistling  "  We  Are  Growing  Old, 
Maggie  "  in  a  vanishing  pitch. 


CHAPTER  XV 
THE  LOCKSTEP 

FOR  three  months  after  the  Greyson  banquet  I  was 
in  the  East  in  the  detective  business.  I  found  that 
Robert  Greyson  had  been  released  from  Sing  Sing 
in  the  preceding  March.  In  the  directories  of  the 
cities  I  visited  there  were  about  seven  thousand  Ma- 
sons. I  discovered  that  the  Colonization  Associa- 
tion's records  were  burnt  up  in  a  fire. 

I  got  the  measurements,  a  copied  photograph  and 
prison  transcript  of  the  commitment  of  Robert  Grey- 
son  to  Sing  Sing.  From  this  I  found  the  trial  date, 
the  name  of  the  judge  and  the  testimony  in  the  Court 
records  and  police  department  at  New  York.  I 
also  secured  a  copy  of  a  likeness  of  Robert  Greyson 
in  the  New  York  rogues'  gallery. 

And  the  prison  photograph  and  the  rogues'  gallery 
photograph  were  very  unlike!  The  Sing  Sing 
picture  showed  a  fine  face  with  deep  sad  eyes,  so 
unexpected  in  prison  pictures  that  I  was  startled. 
The  rogues'  gallery  likeness  showed  the  criminal  face, 
but  I  could  not  see  any  trace  of  dissipation  in  it.  It 
was  Voltairish,  scornful  and  had  a  mocking  twist. 
And  that  face  was  of  the  man  that  fought  Skid 
Puffer! 

280 


The  Lockstep  281 

Judge  Greyson,  who  had  certified  transcripts  of 
the  documents,  had  said  Robert  Greyson  was  in  the 
Dannemora  prison  for  a  term  of  ten  years  and  was 
no  doubt  released  some  months  before.  But  the 
New  York  record  showed  that  he  had  been  sent  to 
Sing  Sing.  I  retraced  the  record  back  and  forth 
and  found  not  a  flaw.  The  trial  judge  was  dead, 
and  all  the  other  court  attendants  and  officers  of 
course  had  been  replaced  by  the  shifts  of  politics. 

Confounded  and  defeated,  I  arrived  at  Indianap- 
olis, on  the  first  of  October.  As  I  was  about  to 
step  into  the  hotel  conveyance  I  saw  a  man  just  ahead 
on  the  sidewalk.  He  carried  a  cheap  valise  and  wore 
rough  looking  clothes.  What  instantly  arrested  my 
attention  was  his  peculiar  gait. 

I  jumped  out  and  told  the  carriage  caller  I  would 
walk.  I  followed  the  stranger  covertly.  His  gait 
was  slow  and  the  swing  of  course  was  more  ample, 
but  there  were  the  heel  down,  the  towing  out,  the 
stiff,  ungraceful  erectness,  the  steady  swing,  the  auto- 
matic mechanism  of  the  prison  lockstep.  He  had 
surely  "  served  time." 

I  hoped  to  get  a  view  of  his  face.  His  hair  was 
black  and  short;  his  clothes  cheap.  I  had  no  pre- 
sentiment that  he  was  anybody  I  was  interested  in. 

Going  slowly  along  unnoticingly,  and  in  deep 
thought,  he  came  to  the  Park  and  sat  down  wearily, 
despairingly  on  the  bench  before  the  Morton  monu- 
ment. 

I  came  up  briskly,  stopped  short,  gazed  over  him 
at  the  effigy  and  asked  without  looking  at  him,  "  Beg 


282  At  the  Greysons' 

pardon,  stranger,  whose  monument  is  that?"  Then 
I  cast  my  glance  upon  him.  His  was  the  Sing  Sing 
prison  face;  the  same  wistful  eyes,  the  same  good 
face.  I  could  not  be  mistaken. 

"  My  God,  man,  Bob  Greyson  sure  as  I'm  alive! " 
and  I  extended  my  hand.  He  gasped  with  surprise 
and  limply  held  my  hand  an  instant. 

"You  are  on,  Mr.  Officer;  they  all  are  every- 
where I  go  sooner  or  later.  I  can't  get  away,  though 
my  term's  out  and  there's  nothing  hanging  over  me. 
I  just  can  not  get  away." 

There  was  a  pitiful  alarm  and  helplessness  in  his 
face  that  touched  me. 

"  I  am  not  a  plain-clothes  man,  Greyson,  and  you 
don't  look  like  a  criminal." 

"Then  how  did  you  catch  on?" 

"  I'm  a  mind-reader,"  I  said  with  gay  heartless- 
ness.  "  Why,  I  even  know  where  you  are  going. 
You  got  out  last  March,  and  getting  enough  money 
together  you  have  come  to  see  Judge  Greyson.  Is 
that  it?" 

He  gaped.  I  now  had  a  pretty  good  opinion  of 
my  ability  as  a  detective.  I  could  fool  and  pick  out 
an  old  criminal.  I  was  too  deeply  in  earnest  to 
trifle  much.  I  wanted  him  to  tell  me  who  he  was, 
and  to  explain  those  photographs. 

"  Pardner,  you  are  great.  That's  what  I  am  go- 
ing to  do.  But  I'd  like  to  know  who  you  are." 

"  I'll  trade  even  on  information,"  I  said  hon- 
estly. 

"  It's  a  go,"  he  answered,  looking  distrustful. 


The  Lockstep  283 

"  My  name  is  Colonel  French.  I  went  East  to 
do  some  unprofessional  work  for  Judge  Greyson  of 
the  Supreme  Court.  I  found  out  there  are  two 
Robert  Greysons,  both  were  convicted  and  served 
their  terms  out  last  March.  One  went  to  Danne- 
mora,  the  other  to  Sing  Sing.  I'm  mixed.  That's 
all." 

"  My  story  is  longer  than  yours.  I'm  nobody, 
just  a  human  blank.  I  have  no  name,  no  reputa- 
tion, and  every  hand  against  me.  Every  one  that's 
come  to  me  for  nearly  nineteen  years  has  had  a  key, 
a  gun  or  a  pair  of  handcuffs.  You're  the  first  man 
I've  run  up  against  in  nineteen  years  with  your  hand 
open. 

"  There's  only  one  Robert  Greyson,  thank  God. 
The  world  wouldn't  stand  for  two.  There  isn't 
enough  meanness  in  it  for  two.  I  married  Bob 
Greyson's  sweetheart.  He  stole  our  baby  when  it 
was  a  year  old.  We  got  into  a  scrap  about  it  right 
in  a  crowded  street  in  New  York,  and  while  strug- 
gling on  the  ground  he  pulled  my  pistol,  tried  to 
kill  me,  missed  and  accidentally  shot  a  woman.  He 
stuck  the  pistol  in  my  pocket,  run  and  escaped.  I 
got  fifteen  years.  When  I  got  out  in  about  eleven 
years,  he  had  me  nabbed  again.  He  had  his  wit- 
nesses, and  with  charges  of  abduction  and  wife  mur- 
der and  with  my  prison  record  I  had  no  show.  I 
got  ten  years  more. 

"He  had  an  evil  influence  over  my  wife.  I  don't 
know  what  became  of  her  or  the  baby.  I  think  he 
hypnotized  her.  When  I  went  up  the  first  time,  I 


284  At  the  Greysons' 

came  out  in  about  eleven  years,  because  of  good  con- 
duct. I  have  never  committed  any  sort  of  crime. 
I'm  about  rubbed  out  now.  I  had  one  glorious 
revenge.  Bob  got  ten  years  before  the  same  judge 
at  the  same  time  I  did, — the  last  time.  He  was 
sent  to  Dannemora.  If  I  see  him  and  get  the  drop 
— that's  all,  unless  my  wife  and  boy  are  alive.  That's 
what  I'm  going  to  see  Jim  Greyson  for.  I  wrote 
him  my  whole  case ;  he  never  answered.  Damn  such 
a  man! " 

"Whom  did  you  marry?     What's  your  name?" 

"I  married  the  Greyson  girl  Claire;  my  name  is 
A.  C.  Mason.  That's  all."  Skid  Puffer's  father! 
That  was  all ! 

I  sat  there  stunned.  I  could  not  find  my  tongue 
to  tell  him  what  I  knew.  I  turned  back  on  his  story 
after  a  time  and  we  slowly  pieced  out  the  fabric 
of  his  lost  years.  It  fitted  in  all  its  parts  and  was 
convincing.  I  got  the  minuter  facts  about  Robert 
Greyson's  love  for  Claire,  his  jealousy,  his  cunning 
dissimulations,  his  ways  and  means.  It  was  a  reason- 
able story  of  jealousy  and  revenge  in  a  conscienceless 
man. 

I  explained  to  him  in  a  few  words  that  his  wife 
was  dead,  and  that  his  son  was  alive  and  a  fine  man. 
I  refused  him  details.  I  explained  those  would  come 
later.  I  told  him  more  fully  about  the  life  and 
home  and  position  of  the  Greysons.  I  explained 
to  him  that  the  Judge  held  him  and  Robert 
Greyson  doubly  guilty  of  the  misery  and  fate  of 
Claire. 


The  Lockstep  285 

Then  I  said,  "Just  a  word  about  your  son.  He 
has  a  furious  vengeance  in  his  heart.  We  are  trying 
to  keep  him  from  taking  the  law  in  his  own  hands 
against  you  and  Robert  Greyson.  He  may  kill  both 
of  you." 

I  told  him  about  the  probated  estate  in  New  York, 
explained  that  I  was  the  guardian  of  Skid,  and  that 
his  property  was  worth  nearly  eight  thousand  dollars. 
As  I  had  more  of  this  world's  goods  than  I  could 
use,  I  told  him  I  would  place  a  sum  to  his  credit  in 
bank  just  as  soon  as  his  position  and  appearance 
were  rehabilitated.  I  fitted  him  out,  gave  him  the 
accounts  and  accepted  a  due  bill. 

After  he  had  become  a  prosperous  looking  citizen 
we  went  to  the  Park  again. 

"  Just  a  little  walk,  Mason,  in  order  to  get  better 
acquainted.  You  are  as  much  a  man  now  as  you 
ever  were.  The  call  of  those  accursed  cells  is  to  the 
whole  family,  to  your  son,  to  me,  to  all  who  love 
fair  play.  I  will  stand  by  you.  I  will  help  you 
fight  out  your  wrongs.  We  will  find  Robert  Grey- 
son." 

He  was  aroused  with  new  hope.  I  told  him  to 
stand  square  with  the  world,  and  get  away  from  the 
lockstep  in  his  heart  as  well  as  the  lockstep  in  his 
feet. 

We  went  to  the  hotel  and  got  rooms.  Later  we 
engaged  a  private  parlor,  and  made  an  appointment 
with  Judge  Greyson  for  four  o'clock. 

The  Judge's  welcome  was  hearty.  He  glanced  at 
the  stranger  with  me,  and  I  said  in  a  commonplace 


286  At  the  Greysons' 

way,  "  This  gentleman  has  helped  me  out.  I  want 
to  tell  you  what  he  has  done."  The  Judge  bowed 
cordially. 

I  pitched  into  my  story  at  once,  and  explained 
everything  minutely  up  to  my  arrival. 

'  Then  this  gentleman,  Judge,  who  helped  me, 
had  the  final  solution  of  all  my  work.  He  found 
two  Robert  Greysons,  one  Robert  Greyson,  the  one 
in  Sing  Sing,  was  sent  there  nearly  nineteen  years  ago 
first.  Your  stepson,  Robert  Greyson,  went  to  Danne- 
mora  state  prison  about  seven  years  ago.  Now, 
Judge,  what  this  gentleman  found  out,  for  which 
both  of  us  should  be  grateful,  is  that  the  Greyson 
who  went  to  Sing  Sing  was  your  son-in-law  and  he 
was  put  there  by  Bob  Greyson  and  his  half-cousin." 
Then  I  related  the  history  of  Mason,  the  Sing  Sing 
Greyson,  in  detail.  I  showed  the  Judge  the  rogues' 
gallery  picture  and  gave  him  a  certified  copy  of  the 
Dannemora  Greyson  case.  He  recognized  his  step- 
son instantly.  "  He  is  the  man  that  fought  Skid 
last  June,  Judge,"  I  explained  (the  Judge  had  not 
seen  the  contest). 

The  jurist  asked  a  dozen  illuminating  questions  for 
facts  I  had  not  thought  of  relating,  but  which  my 
investigations  or  certified  copies  satisfied. 

"How  comes  it  that  Mason  rested  content  under 
the  name  of  Greyson  at  Sing  Sing?  "  he  asked. 

"  I  got  that  too,  Judge,  through  this  gentleman 
here.  Mason  was  practically  insane  when  he  was 
first  put  in  prison,  and  he  was  in  the  hospital  three 
months.  He  told  the  physician,  but  the  prison  doc- 


The  Lockstep  287 

tor  is  used  to  fairy  stories.      Mason  even  wrote  to 
you.     Did  you  get  that  letter?  " 

"  Never;  never  in  the  world,"  answered  the  Judge 
emphatically. 

"  Mason,  your  son-in-law,  is  released  and  we  have 
him  here  in  the  city.  Would  you  like  to  see  him?  " 

"See  him?  Great  God!  See  him?  Where  is 
he?  Let  us  get  there,  hurry."  And  the  Judge 
grasped  his  hat,  his  cane  and  gloves. 

"  Let's  plan  a  little,  Judge.  What  shall  we  say, 
and  what  ought  we  to  do?  " 

"  My  Maker!  Have  I  treated  any  human  being 
as  I  have  this  man  Mason !  It  does  not  seem  pos- 
sible that  I,  a  man  whose  whole  life  is  devoted  to 
justice,  have  been  responsible  for  this  injustice.  I 
moved  from  the  East  here  about  that  time.  That 
may  explain  the  letter  not  reaching  me.  But  let's 
see  Mason.  Quick,  hurry  for  God's  sake,  Colonel, 
let's  get  to  him." 

"  Hold  on,  Judge  Greyson,  I  am  doing  the  honors 
to-day.  Calm  yourself." 

He  looked  at  me  searchingly. 

I  took  him  by  the  arm.  "  Judge,  I  want  to  in- 
troduce you  to  your — to  your  son-in-law,  Mr.  A. 
C.  Mason.  Here  is  his  Sing  Sing  likeness."  The 
Judge  gasped,  stared  at  the  picture,  at  Mason,  and 
then  took  his  hand. 

Looking  him  through  and  through,  he  asked, 
"  You  have  heard  all  that  has  been  said  here?  " 

:'Yes,  I  have,  Jim  Greyson,  and  every  word  is 
true  as  gospel." 


288  At  the  Greysons' 

"  What  is  your  true  name  in  full?  " 

"  A.  C.  Mason.     Arthur  Charles  Mason." 

"  What  was  Claire's  full  name?  " 

"  Claire  Careen  Greyson,  born  Ballard,"  said  Ma- 
son unhesitatingly. 

Then  the  Judge  came  out  of  his  lawyer's  shell, 
the  big-hearted  man. 

"  God  bless  you,  Mason;  forgive  my  unintentional 
injuries  if  you  can.  You  are  to  be  one  of  us  now. 
I  will  introduce  you  to  the  family  to-night."  The 
Judge's  voice  was  broken  and  he  trembled  with  his 
emotions.  "  I  have  much  to  tell  you  about  Skid, 
Colonel.  I  will  be  here  before  court  to-morrow 
morning.  Bring  Mason — shall  I  call  you  Charlie 
now? — bring  him  down  to-night.  Good-afternoon, 
gentlemen." 


BOOK  III 
THE  DESERT 


CHAPTER  I 
CRYPTOGRAMS  AND  LETTERS 

AFTER  the  Judge  had  left  us  Mason  and  I  sought 
our  separate  apartments  for  our  own  private  medita- 
tions. Not  long  after  it  came  to  my  mind  rather 
suddenly  that  the  Judge  and  I  had  forgotten  the 
complication  attendant  on  Skid  meeting  his  father. 
That  was  a  serious  difficulty  and  must  be  attended 
to  at  once.  I  rushed  to  the  telephone  and  found 
him  at  that  very  moment  calling  me. 

"  What  about  that  gentleman  and  his  son,  Judge? 
You  understand?" 

"Was  just  going  to  call  you  up  to  tell  you  that 
the  son  is  out  of  town.  There  will  be  no  mix 
there." 

"  So.  Good!  What's  that,  Judge?  All  right; 
we'll  be  down  about  eight." 

The  next  morning  the  Judge,  pale  and  serious, 
met  us  early  and,  without  explanation  except  "  From 
Skid,"  read  a  telegraphic  message  apparently  several 
days  old.  This  is  what  it  told: 

TUCSON,  ARIZ.,  Sept.  2oth. 
Justice  Greyson,  Chambers  Indpls. 

G  gone  Mexico  city  ballard  survey  employee  re- 
turns guaymas  routed  hermosillo  sonora  trail  to  altar 

291 


292  The  Desert 

quitobaquita  on  international  boundary  line  about 
onethirteen  will  intercept  hermosillo  if  can  with  state 
and  province  warrants  repeat  to  french  letter  follows 
skid. 

I  jumped  with  astonishment.  Then  the  Judge 
calmly  withdrew  a  letter  from  his  pocket,  rather 
crumpled  and  evidently  several  days  old,  spread  it 
out  ready  to  read,  saying: 

"  I  got  a  letter  from  my  stepson,  Lem,  a  few 
weeks  ago,  which  was  like  a  message  from  the  dead. 
He  said  he  had  reformed,  and  was  leading  an  honor- 
able life.  It  was  written  from  the  Survey  camp  of 
the  engineers,  who  are  relocating  the  international 
boundary  line.  It  was  posted  at  Buenos  Ayres,  Ari- 
zona, where  the  headquarters  are.  He  is  chief  scout 
of  the  provision  branch  and  routes  the  water  wagons, 
finds  camping  grounds  of  water  and  grass,  and  is 
scout  for  the  army  escort  who  attend  the  surveying 
parties.  He  is  nearly  always  at  the  front.  He 
has  been  living  in  that  country  for  years  and  says 
he  knows  the  country  as  well  as  he  does  the  streets  of 
this  city. 

"  But  the  astonishing  part  of  his  letter,  the  part 
that  concerns  us,  is  that  Robert  Greyson  arrived  there 
a  few  weeks  ago  with  high  credentials  and  a  specially 
warm  letter  from  me.  He  so  impressed  Chief  Bal- 
lard,  one  of  the  division  chiefs,  that  Bob  is  not  only 
in  high  standing,  but  is  now  employed  on  a  mission 
to  the  City  of  Mexico.  Something  about  previous 
survey  records  perhaps.  I  interpret  the  telegram 


Cryptograms  and  Letters  293 

to  mean  that  Bob  will  return  from  Mexico  City  by 
water  to  Guaymas  on  the  eastern  shore  of  the  Gulf 
of  California,  thence  northward  by  trail  to  Hermo- 
sillo  on  the  Sonora  River.  Skid  has  warrants  from 
Arizona  and  also  from  the  Province  of  Sonora.  It 
appears  that  the  surveying  camp  is  now  about  Quito- 
baquita  proceeding  westward  on  the  boundary  line, 
say  meridian  113  to  114.  This  is  in  the  Yuma 
desert  of  Arizona.  As  I  did  not  know  your  address, 
Colonel,  for  the  last  two  weeks,  I  was  stumped  as 
to  repeating  the  telegram  to  you. 

"  Lem  is  seldom  at  Buenos  Ayres,  and  he  being 
at  the  front  Bob  probably  does  not  yet  know  Lem 
is  with  the  survey.  The  front  now,  I  suppose,  is 
at,  or  a  little  west  of,  meridian  113.  Lem,  I  find, 
is  company  hunting  down  near  Nogales  about  100 
miles  easterly  from  the  front  survey,  or  reconnois- 
sance  parties." 

Judge  Greyson  then  began  to  read  Skid's  letter: 

"  I  had  my  wire  posted  to  Tucson.  Chief  Ballard 
is  with  me  heart  and  soul.  He  is  mother's  uncle ! 
How  strange  things  come  out  in  this  world.  I  have 
studied  routes  with  him  for  several  hours  and  have 
government  blue  prints  of  this  whole  country.  He 
was  deeply  chagrined  when  he  found  out  whom  he 
had  sent  to  Mexico  for  those  maps,  etc.  I  have 
made  arrangements  to  take  the  trail  from  here  with 
Captain  Jack  Rodgers,  employed  by  the  government 
as  Inspector  of  Immigration  on  the  boundary  from 
Nogales  west.  I  can't  quite  make  out  his  position, 


294  The  Desert 

for  he  seems  to  be  deputy  ranger  for  Arizona  terri- 
tory too.  He  is  my  guide.  We  have  duplicate 
warrants  for  the  territory.  I'm  a  deputy  under  Jack, 
and  Chief  Ballard  has  arranged  to  serve  a  duplicate 
warrant  at  the  headquarters  at  Buenos  Ayres  if  he 
gets  the  chance.  Besides  this,  Jack  is  to  arrange 
for  a  Sonora  province  warrant  for  Greyson. 

"  Greyson  returns  by  water  via  Guaymas ;  then 
Hermosillo,  then  Altar,  to  113.  He  then  comes  in 
to  headquarters.  As  Jack  has  a  two  weeks'  vaca- 
tion or  furlough  and  gets  a  hundred  dollars  to  read 
my  warrant  to  Greyson,  dead  or  alive,  and  makes 
three  dollars  a  day  for  trial  service,  he  goes  with 
me  gladly. 

"  We  go  down  leisurely  on  the  old  Coronado  trail 
east  of  and  also  on  the  railroad  from  Nogales  south 
to  Hermosillo  and  start  in  the  morning.  Jack  says 
we  may  miss  our  party  at  Hermosillo,  and  for  fear 
there  may  be  some  slip-up  we  shall  have  our  outfit 
ready  there  to  follow  on  the  trail.  I  want  to  get 
the  scenery  and  experience  anyway.  I  have  a  Mar- 
lin,  two  Colts,  maps,  compass,  thermometer,  camp 
outfit  and  will  learn  to  sleep  in  a  sack  and  eat  greasy 
bacon  and  red-hot  Mexican  food. 

"  Captain  Jack  is  a  fierce,  black-faced  fellow, 
speaks  excellent  language  of  several  kinds.  Ballard 
says  he  knows  all  the  trails  as  well  as  a  pack  rat 
does  its  greasewood  burrows  lined  with  Bigelow  choya 
thorns. 

"  I  hope  you  now  have  Colonel's  permanent  ad- 
dress where  a  letter  will  reach  him.  I  shall  write 


Cryptograms  and  Letters  295 

him.  Explain  the  situation  please.  I  will  write 
to  Tootsie  either  along  the  route  or  at  Hermosillo. 
I  hope  you  will  not  write  or  wire  me  for  some  time, 
for  it  might  flush  the  game.  Wait.  I'll  get  my 
man.  Love  to  all,  "  SKID." 

"What  is  the  date  of  that  letter,  Judge  Grey- 
son?"  I  asked  excitedly. 

"  It's  dated  one  day  later  than  the  telegram  of 
the  twentieth.  It  is  now  the  first  of  October.  Skid 
and  the  Captain  must  be  at  Hermosillo  perhaps  for 
two  or  three  days  or  more.  We  may  expect  a  letter 
at  any  hour  now.  Tootsie  should  hear  from  him 
at  any  time." 

"Oh!  I  forgot  to  ask  for  my  mail  at  the  office, 
Judge,"  I  said,  springing  up.  I  had  telegraphed  the 
hotel  to  hold  my  mail.  I  ran  and  found  not  only 
a  letter,  but  a  telegram. 

The  letter  had  the  postmark  of  Hermosillo,  but 
of  course  the  telegraph  envelope  was  blank.  I  tore 
the  message  out  and  read  it,  returned  to  the  Judge 
and  Mason  and  read  it  to  them. 

COL.  F.  FRENCH, 

Indpls.,  Inda. 

cr.  Grand  Hotel. 

Read  wire  letter  Judge  Greyson  comes  north  H. 
fourth  or  fifth  ready  have  help  all  well  shake  skid. 

That  was  the  second  telegraphic  cryptogram.  We 
got  several  more.  Capitals  and  punctuation  marks 


296  The  Desert 

were  absent.  At  last  we  became  expert  in  read- 
ing the  code  that  prevails  in  telegraph  offices,  pre- 
sided over  by  "  any-boy-can-learn-telegraphing-at- 
home "  incompetents.  But  we  stopped  puzzling 
over  the  telegram  and  sat  down  to  Skid's  bulky 
letter. 

"  Hermosillo,  Mex., 

"Sept.  26th. 
"  DEAR  COLONEL  AND  GUARDIAN  : 

"  Supposing  this  will  be  forwarded  to  you  sooner 
or  later  I  try  the  hotel.  I  hope  father,  by  this 
time,  has  seen  the  contents  of  my  wire  and  letter 
to  you  also.  Now  you  may  be  a  little  surprised  that 
I  am  out  here  on  the  desert  having  the  time  of  my 
life.  I  am  only  just  getting  to  the  danger  edge  now. 
Meanwhile  throwing  everything  off  my  mind  except 
the  work  in  hand,  trailing  and  learning  things — I 
arrived  here  early  this  morning  with  Captain  Jack 
Rodgers. 

"  You  know  why  I  came  here,  of  course.  It  was 
the  first  chance  I  had  to  do  anything.  I  drew  through 
father  a  large  sum,  got  to  Buenos  Ayres,  made  ar- 
rangements there  (see  letter  to  father)  and  came 
with  Captain  Jack  down  this  old  missionary  trail  to 
Hermosillo.  R.  G.  is  expected  about  the  4th  or 
5th.  Only  one  thing  has  disturbed  us  so  far.  Jack 
says  a  trailer  or  guide,  a  rattish  eyed  Yaq,  went  all 
around  the  stopping  places  to-day  seeing  who  was 
about  to  take  the  trail.  He  eyed  me  suspiciously. 
Jack  says  that  if  a  Yaq  eyes  a  man  darkly  for  awhile, 


Cryptograms  and  Letters  297 

that  man  wants  to  sleep  with  his  gun  in  his  hand  for 
a  few  days. 

"  We  re-outfit  here.  We  won't  be  a  bit  surprised 
now  if  they  try  to  slip  past.  Jack  thinks  R.  G.  is 
in  Guaymas  right  now.  That's  about  a  hundred 
miles  south,  and  it  will  take  them  at  least  four  days 
though  the  nights  are  cool,  and  the  road  is  fine  from 
there.  Jack  himself  was  discovered.  He  and  that 
very  same  Yaq  once  had  a  little  set-to,  he  says,  and 
when  that  Yaq  reports  such  a  man  here  as  I  am, 
R.  G.  may  take  alarm. 

"  We  have  made  arrangements  to  take  Papago 
Charlie  and  two  pack  burros  on.  You  ought  to 
smell  my  outfit  over.  It  even  surprises  me  at  the 
stuff  we  have.  Now  we  are  a  regular  caravan  with 
a  Winchester  (Jack's),  a  thermometer,  a  Marlin 
(mine)  a  steel  shovel  (that's  extra),  field  glass  of 
high  power,  extra  water  skins,  handcuffs,  ankle 
shackles,  a  hand  compass  (terrestrial,  hair  sights), 
Ballard's  blue  print  maps,  two  kinds  of  warrants 
(Jack  expects  to  have  an  officer  serve  the  Mexican 
one  here),  about  a  peck  of  steel  nosed  cartridges,  and 
provisions  and  supplies  of  various  kinds. 

"A  curious  thing  happened  ten  days  or  more  be- 
fore my  arrival  at  Buenos  Ayres.  A  crazy  mule, 
mad  with  thirst,  rushed  in  from  the  desert  on  a  hot 
evening  and  grabbed  R.  G.  by  the  left  sleeve.  He 
held  on  like  a  bulldog  (he  had  some  flesh  with  the 
bite)  and  R.  G.,  Ballard  says,  could  not  get  loose. 
He  paused,  set,  drew  back  his  right  slowly,  then 
shot  it  out  like  a  piston,  throwing  his  weight  with 


298  The  Desert 

it,  and  struck  that  mule  square  in  the  forehead. 
Crack!  And  that  mule  sank  down  with  a  little 
whine — dead.  He  had  broken  its  skull.  I  call  that 
going  some. 

"Would  you  believe  it?  Chief  B.  is  a  college 
chum  of  that  pompous  Col.  Armstrong  that  swelled 
around  with  his  orderlies  at  the  Judge's  big  blow 
out  in  June,  and  he  had  written  Chief  B.  about  that 
little  fracas  I  had  in  the  dooryard.  He  sent  all  the 
newspaper  clippings  about  the  affair  (Col.  A.  made  a 
'happy  speech,'  the  clippings  said),  but  he  enlarged 
on  that  scrape  and  said  '  Skid  Puffer,  the  great 
Judge's  adopted  son,'  etc.  So  I  was  known  because 
I  was  discovered.  And  I  was  discovered  because  I 
was  known.  Wa! 

"  As  Squire  Puffer  would  say,  I  was  persony  gravy 
right  from  the  start,  and  Chief  B.  being  mother's 
uncle!  you  can  imagine  things  set  my  way.  I  am 
a  deputy  ranger!  After  two  days  residence!  It's 
legal  too.  I  think  though  the  strangest  thing  that 
I  have  run  against  is  Captain  Jack  himself. 

"  His  face  is  marked  with  powder  stains  and  he 
has  several  knife  marks  on  his  arms  and  hands.  He 
is  as  black  as  a  Spaniard,  agile  as  a  cat,  swift  as 
an  antelope,  and  as  quick  in  a  fight  or  an  emergency 
as  a  chaparral  cock.  He  is  tall,  thin,  bristly,  with 
lazy  blue  eyes.  Think  of  that!  Lazy  blue  eyes! 
I  was  told  on  the  sly  that  he  is  an  ex-outlaw  (I  can't 
believe  it),  ex-boundary  smuggler,  gun  expert  (I 
could  fill  pages  of  his  feats,  all  sufficiently  attested 
to  make  them  look  right),  deserter  and  mountain 


Cryptograms  and  Letters  299 

trailer,  and  the  best  deputy  International  Boundary 
immigration  inspector  in  this  part  of  creation. 

"  When  he  gets  on  the  trail  of  a  Reservation 
escape,  Navajo,  Piman,  Yaq  or  Pap  (Papagoes  are 
called  the  Bean  Eaters)  and  if  they  find  out  it's 
Black  Jack  after  them,  they  act  just  like  Davy  C.'s 
coons.  His  principal  business  now  is  shooing  back 
the  Chinks  and  Japs,  who  thirst  to  get  across  the 
Line  by  way  of  the  Sonoran  trail  (or  elsewhere) . 

"  I  think  he  unlimbered  more  to  me  confidentially 
when  coming  down  here  than  he  has  to  others. 

"  One  time  when  he  was  down  around  Railroad 
Pass,  Arizona,  a  crowd  of  those  human  hyenas,  the 
Apaches,  crowded  him  to  a  fortified  little  lava  hole 
in  the  side  of  a  mountain.  He  said  he  lived  six 
days  on  a  handful  of  honey  mesquite  beans,  a  quart 
of  buggy  water, — six  scalps  and  twelve  Indian 
ponies !  Then  the  Apaches  quit. 

"  He  has  to  go  back  on  the  tenth  of  October. 
When  on  our  way  down  here  he  taught  me  all  the 
desert  trailing  and  hunting  craft  my  system  would 
absorb.  And  the  tales  he  told  me !  They're  better 
than  the  Squire  ever  dreamed  up.  When  I  return 
I'll  repeat  them  for  a  year.  The  strangest  thing 
about  him  is, — He's  a  graduate  of  Columbia!  He's 
traveled,  I  think,  a  hundred  miles  (counting  the 
railroads  in)  to  any  old  padre's  one,  not  counting 
in  Garces.  He  has  taught  me  how  to  camp  out  un- 
der almost  any  kind  of  difficulties.  Of  course  I 
can  make  a  campfire  out  of  the  regular  mesquite  ma- 
terials, but  I  have  learned  to  make  one  out  of  dry 


300  The  Desert 

ocatillo  and  palo-verde  stems,  provided  I  have  a  little 
galleta  grass  and  a  match. 

"  I  am  getting  wise  on  cactus.  I  know  the  whole 
gang  around  this  part  of  the  world.  The  other  day 
we  pretended  as  we  went  into  camp  at  Ures  on  the 
Coronado  trail  that  there  was  no  water  within  forty- 
four  miles.  With  my  hatchet  and  hunting  knife, 
I  cut  off  the  top  of  a  biznaga  cactus.  (There  are 
several  kinds,  but  this  kind  is  about  as  big  and  tall 
as  a  flour  barrel,  and  is  sometimes  called  the  barrel 
cactus).  Then  I  got  a  palo-verde  tree  stem  (any 
punch  piece  of  wood  will  do  if  it  isn't  bitter;  one 
can  take  the  end  of  the  hatchet  handle)  and  pounded 
the  innards  to  a  pulp,  then  I  squeezed  out  the  juice. 
I  easily  got  a  quart.  There  are  two  or  three  kinds 
of  choyas.  It's  a  short  jointed  terror,  a  savage 
bunch  of  cockle  burrs  about  as  big  as  a  small  nubbin 
of  corn  with  back  action  claws  on  each,  making  one 
think  of  hornets  and  red  hot  fishhooks,  when  it's 
on  the  rampage.  Captain  Jack  said  he  called  it 
Bigelow's  devil,  because  Bigelow  is  the  man  that 
invented  it. 

"Then  there's  the  pitahaya;  it's  the  Esau  of  the 
candelabra  cactus.  Sometimes  it's  called  the  saguaro, 
sometimes  almost  any  kind  of  straight  stem  cactus. 
There  has  been  so  much  confusion  among  cactal 
names  that  they  have  been  tied  down  forever  with 
scientific  labels.  And  Jack,  think  of  this  too !  knows 
the  scientific  tags  and  I  have  written  them  all  down, 
for  Tootsie.  The  Cereus  giganteus  is  the  Old  Des- 
ert Sentinel,  the  saguara,  the  candelabra  cactus,  the 


Cryptograms  and  Letters  301 

pitahaya  (with  reservations)  and  a  few  other  names 
that  everybody  knows  about.  It's  good  for  wood- 
pecker nests,  firewood  when  it's  dead,  and  for  travel- 
ers' lies.  Its  staves  will  make  bows  and  arrows, 
but  it  has  about  as  much  general  value  as  swamp 
blue  stem.  Every  traveler  has  to  work  it  into  his 
letters  as  I  do.  After  the  lluvia  d'ora,  or  the  bush 
palo  verde  or  flowering  top  of  the  yucca  or  the  Ajo 
lily  (that's  Mexican  for  garlic)  this  whole  geedanged 
half  resurrected  sea  floor  ought  to  be  planted  with 
things  that  don't  look  so  fierce  and  starved.  If  I 
had  my  way  about  it,  I  told  Jack,  I  would  go  up  to 
the  Colorado  Canyon  somewhere  when  the  river  is 
low  and  where  it  is  about  a  mile  down  between  nar- 
row walls  and  I'd  dam  it  clear  to  the  top  and  let 
the  water  overflow  this  part  of  the  Devil's  world. 
That  would  make  it  a  paradise.  I  can  see  the  twist 
of  his  black  bristly  mustache  yet  when  he  said, 
'  If  we  have  time,  Puffer,  we  will  take  an  after- 
noon off  and  chuck  in  the  rocks,  just  to  see  how  it 
works.' 

"  About  the  quickest  thing  on  earth  in  little  mo- 
tions is  a  sand  lizard.  They  will  curl  their  tails 
over  their  backs  and  shoot  over  the  sands  or  trail 
to  a  crevice  with  about  the  speed  of  electricity. 
There's  just  one  thing  that's  quicker,  though,  a  road- 
runner  or  chaparral  cock.  He's  all  bill,  tail,  steel 
springs  and  feathers.  He  can  catch  a  lizard  between 
the  time  the  lizard  is  scared  and  the  time  the  lizard 
starts  to  run  away,  and  cover  about  ten  feet  in  doing 
it.  He  clips  it  in  two  like  a  candy  man  down  at 


302  The  Desert 

Monticello  snips  a  kiss  of  taffy  off.  I  have  seen 
him  cut  a  horned  toad  in  two  parts  for  practice. 

"  The  best  trick  Jack  has  taught  me  is  snapping 
a  pair  of  handcuffs  on  him  with  my  left  while  holding 
my  Colt  cocked  in  my  right.  Three  seconds  plus 
is  my  time.  I  have  a  Marlin  and  he  a  Winchester. 
He  doesn't  like  a  Marlin  and  says  it  '  catches '  the 
shell  in  emergencies,  once  in  a  thousand  times.  And 
emergencies  in  his  business  mean  life  or  death.  I 
have  shot  away  about  a  peck  of  ammunition  in  prac- 
tice. I  can  plug  a  woodpecker  hole  in  an  organ 
pipe  cactus,  or  a  saguaro  four  inches  over,  at  ninety 
yards,  five  times  in  seven.  I  have  also  shot  off  seven- 
teen woodpecker  heads  as  they  made  faces  at  me, 
sticking  their  heads  out  of  their  holes,  at  fifteen  paces 
(with  my  revolver).  He  has  taught  me  to  swing 
down  on  the  side  of  my  mule  (with  my  belt  gun) 
and  shoot  under  its  neck  at  an  imaginary  redskin,  say 
a  Bean  Eater.  So  far  I  have  not  been  able  to  hit 
anything  but  a  large  expanse  of  atmosphere. 

"  Captain  Jack  says  the  main  thing  out  here  is 
quickness  and  endurance.  Learning  to  go  about 
thirty  hours  without  water  in  August,  three  days 
without  eating,  and  getting  the  drop  are  the  three 
virtues  of  desert  life  in  this  part  of  mis-creation. 
He  says  there  is  only  one  thing  slyer  than  a  wildcat 
or  an  Apache,  and  that  is  a  white  throated  desert 
pack  rat.  We  have  seen  a  thousand  of  their  nests 
in  the  greasewood  burrows,  their  holes  lined  with 
ocatillo  thorns  or  choya  spears,  but  I  have  not  seen 
a  rat  yet.  Jack  said  he  has  seen  just  two  in  life, 


Cryptograms  and  Letters  303 

one  was  dead  by  a  poisoned  well  and  the  other  was 
in  a  picture  book. 

"  One  night  we  were  camped  at  old  Ures.  We 
thought  nobody  was  within  ten  miles,  and  the  town 
was  there  all  right  some  hundreds  of  years  ago.  I 
went  down  the  banks  to  a  little  spring.  It  was  just 
dusk.  Before  I  knew  what  was  up,  I  heard  a  rum- 
bling thunder,  coming  closer  and  closer,  till,  when 
I  was  almost  ready  to  run  into  a  hole  or  hide  my 
head  under  a  greasewood  bush,  I  saw  dimly  about 
thirty  Rancheria  Indians,  on  their  little  ponies,  go 
roaring  past  in  a  cloud  of  dust  after  a  bunch  of  wild 
burros.  As  they  got  opposite  they  swirled  down  the 
arroya  and  up  like  flashing  snake-peters.  Just  as 
they  got  to  the  other  rise  they  began  to  yell  and 
swing  their  lariats.  The  whole  time  was  not  a 
minute.  From  the  beginning  of  the  rattling  thunder, 
I  never  heard  the  like  of  before,  till  they  dashed 
up  and  out  like  shouting  devils  and  disappeared,  I 
thought  old  Nick  had  given  a  holiday  to  the  Infernal 
regions  and  that  I  was  the  victim  of  their  picnic. 
Everything  I  heard  or  saw  was  unlike  any  other 
sound  or  thing  in  my  experience.  That  was  the 
second  deathly  scare  I've  had  in  my  life. 

"  I  feel  pretty  good,  Colonel,  the  way  Jack  treats 
me.  He  said  if  he  hadn't  seen  me  commence  with 
my  Marlin  and  followed  the  time  till  yesterday,  see- 
ing me  shoot,  he  would  testify  before  high  heaven 
that  to  his  best  knowledge  and  belief  I  was  born 
with  a  Winchester  in  my — mouth.  Yes,  he  said 
that.  Yesterday,  wishing  to  do  something  on  the 


304  The  Desert 

ancient  Coronado  trail  to  distinguish  myself,  Jack 
measured  off  (by  pacing)  one  hundred  yards.  Then 
I  stripped  to  my  shoes  and  drawers,  he  held  the 
watch  and  I  covered  the  ground  in  ten  flat.  He  was 
so  astonished  for  a  while  that  he  was  silent,  then 
he  asked  me  how  I  could  negotiate  a  mile.  I  told 
him  when  I  was  feeling  pert  and  the  weather  was 
snappy,  about  4:45  was  needed.  He  said  I  ought 
to  hire  out  to  run  down  antelopes  for  the  mining 
companies.  He  sort  of  threw  in  aimlessly  that  a 
swift  man  was  never  a  remarkably  strong  man.  I 
could  not  stand  that.  I  told  him  to  make  himself 
stiff  with  his  arms  by  his  side.  I  caught  him  by  his 
belt  from  behind,  and  with  a  quick  flirt  he  was  way 
up  above  my  head  on  the  end  of  one  arm.  I  let 
him  down  softly,  and  asked  him  how  the  weather 
was  up  there. 

" '  Puffer,'  he  said,  '  you  don't  need  any  gun 
to  serve  these  warrants,  coming,  stopping,  or 
going.' 

"It  would  take  several  letters  much  longer  than 
this  to  tell  you  the  interesting  things  he  related  about 
the  language,  the  people,  the  history  and  the  meaning 
of  this  part  of  the  world.  I  know  something  about 
tarantulas,  centipedes,  desert  mice,  rabbits  and  hares, 
the  difference  between  a  rancheria  and  a  temporale, 
sidewinders,  mountain  sheep,  water-holes,  the  Ca- 
mino  del  Diablo,  the  International  Boundary  line, 
about  the  Gila  and  Salt  River  meridian  and  base  line, 
the  reservations,  the  habits  of  Indians  of  the  differ- 
ent kinds,  sandstorms,  regular  storms,  desert  ice, 


Cryptograms  and  Letters  305 

yes  ice  (twice  already  at  nights  we  have  had  two 
blankets  over  our  sleeping  bags,  with  no  in  the 
shade  in  the  daytime)  and  how  to — cook. 

"  The  most  deadly  thing  I  have  attacked  yet  is  the 
cooking.  A  camp  cook,  part  Yaq,  part  Mexican, 
and  part  devil,  mixes  things,  makes  them  hot  as  fire 
can  make  them  and  hotter  with  peppers  and  other 
unknown  things.  Then  you  brace  yourself,  say  good- 
bye and  try.  It  is  something  like  eating  Abe  Puffer's 
cockle  burs  red  hot,  washed  down  with  Angelina 
P.'s  strongest  lye.  My  cook  from  here  will  be 
Papago  Charlie.  I  have  already  sampled  his  mixes. 
Pepper,  rancid  butter  or  lard,  mule  bacon,  and  un- 
leavened tortilla  flour  are  his  desserts.  He  talks 
about  a  thousand  times  worse  than  pure  Kankakee, 
but  in  the  sign  and  grunt  language  he  is  gram- 
matically Ai.  Jack  says  he  is  an  expert  on  the  trail, 
and  will  not  do  anything  worse  than  steal  or  desert 
a  tenderfoot.  If  we  have  to  follow  from  here  he 
will  walk  behind  two  burros  which  hold  most  of 
our  earthly  possessions,  while  Jack  and  I  will  either 
ride  our  mules  or  trade  them  off  for  ponies. 

"This  is  a  big  dead  and  alive  trading  place;  a 
rendezvous  for  cattlemen,  prospectors,  mine  bosses, 
thieves,  cutthroats,  cowboys,  lazy  peons,  lazier  In- 
dians, sleepy  officials,  squaws  who  are  always  trying 
to  sell  what  nobody  on  earth  ought  to  buy,  and  much 
other  animated  disreputability.  (That's  a  bigger 
pair  than  Abe  Puffer  ever  grew.  What  he  did  miss 
by  not  having  those  two  in  emergencies !  He  could 
have  thrown  them  at  Jake  Spading,  stood  back  on 


306  The  Desert 

his  dignity  and  Darwinicks  and  shaken  the  founda- 
tions of  Pufferland). 

"  Jack  gets  a  hundred  dollars  for  serving  either 
warrant  to  R.  G.,  dead  or  alive.  He  says  it  looks 
as  if  this  case  was  one  of  the  hot  muzzle  arrests 
on  trail.  There  is  only  one  way  our  party  can  make 
meridian  113  on  the  Boundary.  They  must  follow 
the  old  Hermosillo  trail  from  here  to  Altar  on  the 
Altar  river.  From  there  (it's  four  days'  travel  to 
that  spot)  they  must  go  over  the  ancient  Sonora- 
Altar  trail  north.  Above  Altar  (El  Altar,  Mexi- 
cano)  it  bears  off  Northwest-north-north  (or  some- 
thing like  that,)  to  the  Sonoyta  Valley.  There  are 
no  temporales  or  rancherias  till  one  strikes  the  very 
old  trail  from  the  Sonoyta  Valley  to  Nogales.  Those 
places  are  about  120  miles  apart.  All  the  way  north 
from  Altar  now  the  country  is  deserted,  the  wickiups 
vacant,  the  country  empty.  The  Papagoes  are  over 
in  the  Sierra  Madre  foothills  hunting;  the  squaws 
for  pine  nuts,  acorns,  roots,  seeds  and  several  kinds 
of  nuts.  The  bucks  are  hunting  mountain  sheep, 
wild  turkeys,  mule  deer,  '  burros,'  and  other  game 
in  daytime,  and  stealing  ranch  cattle  and  ponies  at 
night.  They  sometimes  raid  a  mine  for  excitement. 

"  Jack  told  me  all  about  the  Sonoyta  river,  valley, 
mountains  and  its  people.  I'll  save  that  for  Toot- 
sie's  letter,  for  this  letter  is  too  long  (though  I  have 
nothing  else  to  do).  My  dear  Colonel,  at  times  I 
feel  devilish  lonely  out  here  in  this  killing  corner, 
where  not  only  nature  seems  nearly  starved,  but  the 
people  too  seem  to  be  too  lazy  to  grow  right. 


Cryptograms  and  Letters  307 

"When  I  lie  awake  some  nights  down  here  with 
my  head  sticking  out  of  my  bed  sack,  my  head  on 
my  saddle  (that's  a  very  hard  pillow,  Colonel,  too) 
looking  up  at  the  blazing  stars  I  have  thoughts  that 
I  know  you  will  understand.  I  have  tried  to  keep 
my  mind  off  of  the  time  and  the  place  and  the  thing! 
Yet  I  feel  sure  I  will  be  successful  in  my  mission. 
Robert  Greyson  is  coming  home  with  me  in  hand- 
cuffs or  in  a  coffin.  You  will  know  this  is  no  bluff. 
He  must  answer. 

"  I  have  made  arrangements  with  Captain  Jack 
and  with  Chief  Ballard,  if  things  do  not  turn  out 
right.  Remember  that.  I  shall  have  to  quit  right 
here  before  I  say  too  much  or  feel  the  same  way. 
With  love  to  you  for  ten  thousand  friendly  and 
fatherly  acts,  and  blessing  and  loving  all  the  others 
at  home,  I  will  close. 

"  SKID." 

During  the  reading  of  this  letter  we  had  been 
delighted,  amused,  charmed  into  forgetfulness,  sur- 
prised, proud,  reassured  for  his  safety.  We  had 
burst  into  uneasy  fits  of  laughter,  and  at  the  last 
felt  a  clutch  at  our  hearts.  He  "  would  make  ar- 
rangements with  Captain  Jack  or  Chief  Ballard  if 
things  do  not  turn  out  right." 

The  Judge  was  called  to  the  hotel  office  and  re- 
turned to  us,  saying  that  Tootsie  had  received  her 
letter.  "  It's  mostly  historical,  she  says,  but  we  must 
go  down  now  to  the  house  and  read  it." 


CHAPTER  II 
SKID'S  LETTER  TO  TOOTSIE 

IT  is  not  pertinent  in  this  part  of  the  record  of 
Skid  Puffer's  life  to  recite  the  meeting  of  Mason 
with  the  Greyson  family.  I  can  not  take  the  space 
either  to  give  all  of  Skid's  letter  to  Tootsie,  but  I 
will  give  disconnected  paragraphs  from  it. 

"  Captain  Jack  and  I  have  traveled,  rather  lei- 
surely, part  of  the  way  on  the  old  Coronado  trail 
down  here.  I  suppose  this  is  the  oldest  road  in 
America,  and  has  most  of  historic  interest.  Why, 
Toots,  people  have  been  doing  roadwork  on  it  long 
before  the  Sandhill  road  was  blazed  by  the  tails  of 
the  Puffer  bears.  Shakespeare  was  not  born  when 
Father  Marcos  and  his  negro  tacked  along  it,  finding 
out  how  hard  it  is  to  make  a  new  way  in  a  Mexican 
wilderness. 

"This  was  some  time  ago,  in  1539.  I  suppose 
an  expert  like  you  knows  all  about  Estevanico  and 
Father  Marcos.  These  names  have  as  many  ways 
for  their  spelling  as  Hink  Stickel  has  for  cate- 
chism. 

'  The  first  name  that  Captain  Jack  mentioned  that 
caught  my  fancy  was  Vacapa  or  Bacapa.  That's 

308 


Skid's  Letter  to  Tootsie  309 

where  Father  Mark  stopped  over  on  Easter  Sunday, 
April  6th,  1539.  And  that's  about  the  first  word 
where  the  history  mixers  stop  when  they  start  on  his 
trail,  many  of  them  telling  what  old  Mark  never 
said,  and  describing  where  he  never  went. 

"  Captain  Jack  says,  'A  great  deal  depends  where 
Mark  took  dinner  on  April  6th;  his  narrative  of 
leagues  and  geographical  monstrosities  depends  on 
where  he  dined.  Books  have  been  written  about 
this  famous  spot.  Some  of  the  historical  masseurs 
have  slammed  old  Marcos  over  to  Quitobaquita  up 
on  the  north  edge  of  Sonora,  about  meridian  113 
on  the  International  Boundary.  That  was  not  a 
Papago  bean  dinner,  Puffer,  it  happened  down  on 
the  Matape  or  Fuerte  river,  south  central  Sonora. 
St.  Joseph's  mission  was  down  there  in  1629.  Mark's 
body-servant  was  a  much  traveled  colored  gent.  He 
came  overland  from  Florida  with  de  Vaca,  and  get- 
ting the  big  head,  he  ran  things  on  the  old  father's 
pioneer  trail  when  they  went  hunting  for  the  im- 
mortal Seven  Cities  of  Cibola.' 

"  Jack  knows  about  a  bushel  of  Indian  dialects, 
and  has  made  original  investigation  here  for  years. 
He  says  he's  been  over  the  trail  from  one  end  to 
the  other  with  a  fellow  named  Bandelier  years  ago, 
and  others  have  mixed  things  part  of  the  way.  He 
says  books  have  been  written  about  old  Mark  and 
Coronado,  who  came  next  year  following  the  old 
father's  footsteps,  including  Steve's.  He  talks  very 
irreverently  about  the  whole  matter,  and  says  '  Any 
man  who  would  waste  over  six  or  seven  minutes  as 


310  The  Desert 

to  the  route  Old  Mark  and  his  lying  nigger  went, 
ought  to  be  jailed.' 

"  Captain  Jack's  age,  judging  from  his  looks, 
would  fit  almost  anywhere  between  thirty-five  and 
fifty.  I  asked  him  one  time  the  meaning  of  this 
corner  of  the  world. 

"  '  Puffer,'  he  answered,  '  this  Yuma  and  Colorado 
desert  is  the  frying  pan  to  purify  the  air  for  the  rest 
of  the  United  States.' 

"  *  But  what  is  it  good  for,  Cap?  ' 

"  '  Son,  that  is  the  last  question  an  artist  should 
ask.  What's  a  sky  picture  from  a  devil's  mirage 
to  God's  finest  sunset  good  for?  What's  vastness, 
sublimity,  landscape,  color  good  for?  The  question 
ought  to  be,  What  is  a  man  out  here  good  for?' 
Then  he  turned  whimsical ;  his  bristles  over  his  upper 
lip  twisted  into  a  smile.  '  This  part  of  creation  is 
good  for  an  editor  on  vacation,  a  paid  correspondent, 
or  some  prose  poet,  to  ride  along  the  railway  and 
make  pen  splurges  to  send  home  to  their  readers  or 
for  the  paunches  of  books  of  travels.  They  are  the 
fellows  who  from  the  car  windows  see  the  glowing 
floods  of  colors  that  were  never  on  land  or  sea ;  hear 
the  silence,  hook  on  to  the  vastness,  slop  about  the 
Cataract  canyon,  and  talk  about  the  fierceness,  and 
never  fail  to  ring  in  the  greasewood  and  butcher  up 
the  saguaro  and  Casa  Grande  ruins.  Their  testi- 
mony is  about  as  competent  as  the  travelers  on  the 
incoming  liners  making  their  first  trip  to  America. 
A  few  of  them  begin  to  tell  how  they  love  America 
when  they  smell  the  smoke  of  the  reporters'  tug. 


Skid's  Letter  to  Tootsie  311 

If  Nature  pours  out  too  much  water  we  have  ocean 
down  to  swamp;  too  much  heat,  hellfire  in  the  earth 
all  the  way  up  to  deserts.  The  wind  sands  modify, 
the  travelers  do  the  rest.  The  tantrums  of  the  wind 
out  here,  loaded  up  with  sand,  have  cut  this  country 
into  curious  landscape  mosaics.' 

"  One  night  when  we  were  stretched  out  on  our 
blankets  before  going  to  bed  up  at  old  Arispe,  just 
poking  along  in  silent  thought,  Jack  raised  up  on 
one  elbow  and  looked  at  me  with  a  curious  glance  in 
his  dark  face. 

"  *  Ever  get  to  dreaming,  Puffer?  Fool  dreams, 
just  to  pass  the  time  away,  like  flying  and  having 
visions?  ' 

"  '  Thousands  of  times,  Cap.  I'm  built  that  way. 
I  have  flown  a  million  miles  up  in  the  skies,  been 
worth  nine  hundred  and  forty-four  millions  of  dol- 
lars and — oh !  other  little  things  like  that.' 

"  He  laughed  and  seemed  to  get  some  comfort  out 
of  the  thought  that  there  were  others.  He  turned 
serious. 

"  *  I  have  studied  this  part  of  the  map,'  he  said, 
'till  I  know  it  about  as  well  as  my  little  ranch.  I 
know  the  trackways  from  railroad  down  to  a  lizard's 
run ;  slept  in  it,  hunted  in  it  for  animals,  four  legged 
and  two  legged;  trailed  in  it,  warred  in  it,  starved 
in  it,  smothered  in  it  and  stood  it  for  eighteen  years. 
And  the  more  I  live  in  it,  the  more  bedamned  I  am. 
About  the  only  fun  I  get  out  of  it  is  in  having  its 
historical  visions.  I  somehow  always  start  about  a 
year  before  Coronado  came  jagging  along.  To- 


312  The  Desert 

day  and  especially  to-night,  I  have  been  seeing  that 
fat,  Moroccan  nigger,  Estevanico,  Steve,  old  man 
de  Vaca's  servant.  See  him  and  old  Mark  stumbling 
along  this  trail  in  1539? 

"  '  They  went  along  here,  Steve  doing  the  intro- 
duction and  telling  lies  so  big  and  new  that  they 
were  bowlegged;  and  so  entrancing  that  old  Mark 
set  them  down  in  an  imperishable  geographical 
mix-up.  You  ought  to  start  on  it  some  time, 
but  make  your  will  first.  You  may  never  live 
through  it. 

"  '  I  see  Steve,  crazy  over  women  and  gold,  get- 
ting the  swelled  head,  a  few  days  in  advance  of  his 
master,  old  Mark,  whose  name  nobody  knows,  both 
fascinated  or  crazy  by  the  stories  of  the  seven  cities 
of  Cibola.  The  nigger  went  ahead  spying  out  roads 
and  ready  to  steal,  the  true  pioneer  instinct.  You 
know  about  Cibola?  No?  Cibola  was  on  the 
southern  land  edge  of  the  Great  Northern  Mystery. 
It  should  have  had  silver  walls,  golden  roofs  and 
the  people  should  have  worn  gem-decked  clothes  and 
then  Steve  would  have  been  a  black  saint  by  this 
time. 

" '  So  as  Steve  raged  on  followed  by  old  Mark, 
through  this  Sonora  River  valley;  right  along  this 
very  road  and  Mark  dreaming  of  souls,  that's  the 
missionary  instinct,  he  would  receive  crosses  from 
Steve  of  a  size  in  proportion  to  his  lies.  Mark 
could  not  head  Steve  off,  and  he  poked  along  after 
him,  his  glory  goose  quill  in  one  hand,  the  crucifix 
in  the  other,  getting  enough  counterfeit  glory  crosses 


Skid's  Letter  to  Tootsie  313 

from  the  front  to  make  poor  old  nameless  Mark 
forget  his  prayers. 

"  '  I  see  the  old  Friscan  friar  toiling  along  here 
through  this  bony  Sonora  valley  after  the  panting 
nigger,  thinking  of  the  torquoise  studded  cotton 
clothes,  the  silver  walls,  the  golden  roofs  of  the  far 
off  seven  cities  of  Cibola  and  taking  possession  of 
the  country  when  he  had  picked  these  choya  thorns 
out  of  his  hands,  four  hundred  and  fifty  years  ago. 
Say,  that's  older  than  you  are,  Puffer.' 

"  I  told  him  he  had  missed  my  age  just  a  year. 
Then  he  went  on: 

"  '  Let  us  be  down  at  Ures  now,  old  Ures  by  the 
gorge  where  friar  Mark  got  his  first  cross.  There 
the  road  comes  up  out  of  Mexico,  and  hesitates  which 
way  it  will  go.  It  is  later  in  the  year.  I  see  old 
Mark  coming  back  ragged,  starved,  gaunt,  shaking 
with  fear  and  startled  at  every  lurking  bush, — de- 
feated. Whipped  ever  since.  The  nigger  staid, 
staid  there  ever  since. 

" '  Here  they  come,  Puffer,  Coronado,  the  sword 
following  the  crucifix.' 

"  Jack  jumped  up  and  pointed  down  the  south 
going  trail.  '  See  that  toy  army,  the  thousand  In- 
dians, the  sheep,  the  cattle,  the  thousand  extra  horses, 
the  twenty  praying  priests,  the  two  hundred  and  fifty 
of  the  Castilian  chivalry  in  their  pomp,  their  flashing 
trappings  and  glistering  arms!  Hear  the  rattling 
thunder  of  the  horses'  hoofs  following  old  Mark's 
spoor.  Their  eyes  see  in  fancy  the  golden  roofs 
of  the  seven  mighty  cities,  their  hands  itch,  every 


The  Desert 

eye  shining  with  the  glory  that  was  Coronado  and 
the  grandeur  that  was  Steve's.  They  camp  here, 
the  twenty  priests  more  or  less  bless  them  as  they 
sink  to  sleep  with  dreams  of  Cibola.  Dreams  of 
yellow  written  out  in  red.' 

"  After  this  effort  Captain  Jack  sat  down  again 
and  in  about  a  minute  pointed  to  the  north.  '  Here 
they  come  back  again,  that  toy  army  defeated  like 
old  Mark,  also  ragged  and  dirty,  shivering,  thinned, 
empty-handed,  reviling  old  Mark,  cursing  all  Cibola. 
Those  few  are  all  that  are  left,  heavy  hearted,  hang- 
ing their  heads,  sneaking  back  home.  Poor  devils 
of  Spanishmen,  poor  stricken  people  of  Cibola,  what 
a  swan  song  chase  was  that,  my  countrymen !  That's 
ever  the  Spanish  way. 

"  *  Look  over  the  mountains,  Puffer,  to  the  west. 
See  those  friars?  Traveling  here,  there  on  trails 
no  better  marked  than  the  mule  deer's  or  the  wild- 
cat's. Missions,  churches,  presidios  from  way  south 
of  Bacapa  to  the  headwaters  of  the  Gila  across  the 
deserts  to  San  Francisco.  I  see  old  Father  Garces 
toiling  his  way  down  the  Gila  to  the  Colorado,  across 
the  Mohave,  to  Buena  Vista,  down  the  Pacific  coast 
with  the  roar  of  the  ocean  in  his  pious  ears  to  San 
Diego,  coming  back  across  the  Colorado  desert, 
Yuma,  the  Gila  pass  at  Tinajas,  Agua  Duke,  Ca- 
borca  on  the  Altar,  back  to  the  Fuerte,  then  up  the 
trail  to  Bac,  on  the  desert  above  Nogales.  Prayer 
shacks  in  a  hundred  lost  corners  on  naked  deserts, 
beads  in  ten  thousand  redskins'  hands,  churches  with 
crosses  looking  reverently  over  a  hundred  leagues, 


Skid's  Letter  to  Tootsie  315 

padres,  padres,  padres,  everywhere  winding  along 
the  trails,  mumbling  Latin  prayers,  sprinkling  desert 
water  on  a  dirty  savage  to  save  his  black  soul,  the 
Spanish  kind  of  God  in  the  high  tablelands,  on  the 
mesas,  the  rivers,  the  desert  sands,  in  every  mesquite 
bush. 

"  '  Then  revolts,  insurrections  and  slaughterings — 
there's  a  wagonload  of  martyrs'  crowns  at  least  in 
Sonora.  Soon  the  old  glory  trails  are  silent,  the 
Apache,  like  the  coyote,  jumps  through  the  windows 
of  the  fallen  mission  houses, — ruin,  silence,  forgetful- 
ness  !  ' 

"  And,  Toots,  though  I  could  not  help  admiring 
his  humorous,  cynical  and  earnest  vision,  I  added: 
'  And,  Jack,  the  coyote  chews  up  the  stolen  mail  sack 
and  howls  his  even-song  in  the  places  where  the  Bean 
Eaters  once  said  their  rigmaroles.'  Jack  laughed 
at  that,  and  seeing  I  was  still  in  the  right  temper, 
went  on  orating: 

" '  Then  after  three  centuries  another  kind  of 
bloody  missionary  is  picking  along  the  old  mission- 
ary trails.  He  leads  a  pack  mule  or  so,  carries  a 
gun,  and  every  bundle  has  a  pick  and  a  pan.  He 
digs  holes  in  the  riverbeds,  in  the  hills,  in  the  ledges, 
in  the  mountains  and  he  pans,  pans,  pans.  Now  I  see 
a  human  herd  coming  along  the  trails  from  the  south, 
peons,  Mexicans,  Indians,  dark  faced  men  with  bul- 
let heads  and  hot  eyes,  crowding  along  the  deserted 
missionary  tracks,  the  Devil's  trail,  the  trackless 
deserts  to  the  flood  wash  of  the  Colorado,  to  the 
golden  gravels  of  California.  A  better  Cibola,  but 


316  The  Desert 

as  bloody.  They,  like  Steve,  rage  along,  the  sun 
beats  them  down  and  the  rocky  crosses  on  the  sands 
mark  the  human  sacrifice  to  the  Yellow  Thirst. 

'I  see  a  kingly  man  of  high  brows  and  eagle 
eyes  with  his  immortal  troop  come  out  of  the  valleys 
on  the  west,  cross  the  burning  deserts  and  disappear 
to  the  east.  Fremont!  Here  another  troop  com- 
ing from  the  east  with  their  eyes  in  every  nook,  their 
hands  using  strange  instruments  shining  in  the  hot 
sun,  measuring  and  spying  out  the  long,  long  table- 
lands of  Arizona.  There  are  springs,  passes,  flow- 
ers, roads,  rivers,  mountain  ranges,  named  after 
them.  They,  like  Steve  the  nigger,  who  is  sleeping 
across  their  path  for  more  than  three  hundred  years, 
are  seeking  a  trail  to  the  golden  roofed  Portolas  of 
California.  They  are  sending  back  not  crosses  but 
government  reports  for  the  waiting  millions  beyond 
the  sunrise  rim.  I  hear  the  boy-voiced  whistle  of 
Ives'  cackling  toy  steamer  echoing  in  the  caverns  of 
the  upper  Colorado;  see  him  jump  on  the  banks  and 
rage  across  the  awful  tablelands  of  Arizona,  starved 
and  perishing.  Twenty  years  and  there  is  a  black 
roach  of  smoke  from  demons  plunging  through  the 
endless  wilds. 

"  '  Engines  puff  in  lone  places  at  the  entrance  to 
dark  holes  in  the  mountains;  there  is  the  eternal  de- 
fiant thunder  of  the  stamps  breaking  up  the  ribs  of 
the  mountains;  swarms  of  men  are  edging  over  from 
the  east;  numberless  droves  of  cattle  are  biting  the 
earth  of  the  starved  plains;  windmills  mark  the  way; 
the  east  touches  the  west;  the  desert  blooms. 


Skid's  Letter  to  Tootsie  317 

"  '  The  Anglo-Saxon  is  crawling  up  out  of  the  val- 
leys, swinging  over  the  tablelands,  building  cities  on 
the  sands.  The  red  men  are  rubbed  out  in  corrals, 
the  antelope  and  the  wildcat  quiver  in  the  night  as 
they  stop  over  the  steel  rails  listening  to  their  funeral 
march  in  the  singing  telegraph  wires.  Now  they 
understand  the  meaning  of  the  daylight  salute  of  the 
requiem  guns.  The  padres  sleep,  the  missions 
crumble  into  the  sands,  the  American  sits  down  to 
sup  after  his  long  slaughters  for  peaceful  homes. 
That's  Sonora,  Arizona,  New  Mexico  after  four  hun- 
dred and  fifty  years.  Whoope-ee !  '  It  was  a  wild 
Apache  war  whoop  and  I  jumped  a  yard. 

"  '  That's  pretty  good,  Jack,  you'd  take  a  blue  rib- 
bon at  the  Tippecanoe  County  Fair.'  He  seemed 
tickled. 

"  '  That's  my  commencement  address  at  Columbia 
a  few  years  ago,  Puffer.  I  see  I  have  forgotten  just 
how  some  of  it  roars.  You  stood  it  gee-danged  well.' 
(He  said  gee-danged,  honest!)  And  then  he  slipped 
in  his  camp  sack,  and  before  ten  minutes  was 
snoring." 

There  were  several  pages  more  of  Tootsie's  letter 
from  Skid.  As  she  read  it,  it  made  us  almost  forget 
our  fears  and  sorrows.  We  read  and  reread  those 
letters  many  times. 

The  next  morning  on  his  way  down  town  the 
Judge  stopped  at  the  telegraph  office ;  and  he  stopped 
every  morning  without  result  till  the  morning  of 
the  fifth  of  October. 


CHAPTER  III 
THE  PUFFER  CUT-OFF 

ON  the  fifth  of  October  he  received  this  telegram : 

"  G.  slipped  past  last  night  fourth  follow  jack 
popgo  write  from  altar  three  days  more  skid." 

"  Seems  to  be  unsigned,  Judge,"  explained  the 
young  operator  who  had  just  "  picked  it  from  the 
wire."  The  Judge  had  stood  there  with  impressive 
dignity  at  the  counter  waiting  to  see  it. 

The  Judge  took  it  eagerly,  frowned  at  it,  stared 
at  it,  glared  at  it  and  said  in  that  kind  of  tone  that 
had  made  many  a  prisoner  wince  at  its  evenness 
when  sentence  was  about  to  be  pronounced,  "  It 
seems  unsensed  also." 

"All  I  got,"  answered  the  operator — looking  rue- 
fully sympathetic. 

"  Oh !  "  said  Judge  Greyson,  "  one  message  is 
about  as  good  as  another  with  you  gentlemen,  I  sup- 
pose." And  the  Judge  was  about  to  swell  out.  The 
general  manager  had  caught  the  look  on  the  Grey- 
son  features  and  hurrying  up,  looking  grievously  con- 
cerned, asked: 

"What's  the  matter,  your  honor?"  The  man- 
318 


^-    5J 

Y.    ~ 


The  Puffer  Cut-off  319 

ager  shot  a  forbidding  glance  at  the  narrow  back 
of  his  operator  at  the  instrument.  The  Judge  with 
cold  disdain  handed  back  the  yellow  paper.  The 
manager  frowned  at  it  with  nervous  intensity,  poised, 
moved  tensely  toward  the  operator  now  slopping  out 
other  grammatical  ciphers,  bored  again  with  his  nose 
over  the  sheet  and  burst  out : 

"Shall  we  repeat,  Judge?"  The  Judge  reached 
for  the  message  in  darkling  silence,  tucked  the  paper 
in  his  overcoat  pocket  with  great  judicial  calm. 

"No;  /  have  experts  at  the  office.  I  am  glad 
you  throw  in  word  spaces  free  but  I  would  willingly 
pay  for  punctuation  and  capitals." 

"  Of  course  they  charge  for  periods,  Judge ;  you 
see—" 

"  I  see,"  said  the  Judge,  stiffly  erect,  and  ready  to 
stamp  out  with  his  gold-headed  cane,  "  I  see.  Capi- 
tals would  get  bunched  and  tangled  on  the  wires. 
They  short  circuit  the  sense.  We  can  not  expect  too 
much  from  the  telegraph  company  anyway.  The 
knotting  up  of  the  words  is  enough.  Good-morning, 
sir." 

The  manager  shook  his  head  meditatively  as  the 
Judge  with  supernal  calm  was  driven  off  with  slow 
dignity  to  his  home. 

When  he  reached  his  library  he  shook  off  his  great 
coat,  flung  off  his  undercoat,  snapped  off  his  cuffs, 
spread  out  the  cryptogram  before  him  and,  calling 
for  me,  he  began  to  nose  over  it  with  great  energy. 

Our  translation  was  in  effect  that  Greyson  had 
slipped  out  of  or  past  Hermosillo  the  night  of  the 


320  The  Desert 

fourth  of  October;  that  Jack  and  Skid  and  the  Papago 
followed,  and  that  after  three  days  more  Skid  would 
write  from  Altar. 

During  these  days  our  apprehensions,  our  fears, 
our  suspense  supped  and  slept  with  us.  But  all  things 
end  sometime.  At  last  the  letter  did  come  and  it 
was  very  long.  We  read  it  many  times.  The 
rough  map  in  it  made  things  clearer  and  our  public 
maps  became  more  useful,  but  it  showed  how  poor 
they  were.  The  letter  was  commenced  at  Altar  on 
the  Asuncion  river  and  was  finished  the  next  day 
at  the  Boni  waterhole,  perhaps  fifty  miles  further 
along  the  trail.  It  appeared  that  after  a  u  gun 
brush "  the  party  ahead  secured  fresh  mules,  and 
scarcely  stopping  at  Altar,  continued  with  great  haste 
to  the  next  stopping  place.  Skid  and  Jack  stopped 
during  the  sunlight  hours  at  Altar.  Here  Captain 
Jack,  whose  time  was  up  the  next  day,  the  morning- 
of  the  tenth  of  October,  made  part  of  a  rough  map 
of  the  region  further  on.  As  they  started  off  at 
sunset  Captain  Jack  had  tucked  the  paper  in  his 
pocket  and  said  to  Skid: 

"  Puffer,  I  have  almost  finished  a  map  of  the  coun- 
try above.  If  we  overtake  them  at  Boni,  and  we 
have  a  Winchester  introduction  that  leaves  my  nose 
sticking  in  the  sand  for  the  rest  of  the  day  before 
the  coyotes  come,  just  roll  me  over  and  take  this 
out  of  my  pocket.  You'll  need  it.  I  have  made  a 
cut-off  in  it  that  I  want  to  explain  a  little.  If  they 
get  out  of  Boni  before  we  get  there,  we  will  go  west 
about  a  mile  to  a  butte  I  know  of,  and  with  our 


The  Puffer  Cut-off  321 

compass  and  field  glasses  we  will  get  the  lay  of  the 
land." 

Perhaps  it  was  an  hour  before  sunset  when  they 
hastened  forward  on  the  trail.  Meanwhile  Skid  had 
written  his  letter. 

When  he  and  his  party  by  almost  incredible  exer- 
tions arrived  at  the  Boni  waterhole  in  early  morning 
of  the  next  day  they  found  the  hole  emptied  and 
converted  into  a  mass  of  filth.  To  an  inexperienced 
and  unversatile  man  this  would  have  been  a  problem 
of  life  and  death.  Of  course  the  water  which  they 
carried  was  exhausted;  they  could  not  go  ahead  or 
return  to  Altar  with  much  hope  of  surviving. 

It  was  then  that  Captain  Jack  said: 

"  Puffer,  I  have  been  following  desert  and  moun- 
tain trails  for  eighteen  years.  I  can  play  the  whole 
game,  but  this  fellow  ahead — hell  never  vomited  up 
one  like  him  before  for  cunning  and  unmixed  devil- 
try. It's  things  like  these  that  make  me  believe  in 
some  of  the  doctrines  of  Calvin." 

But  out  came  that  short-handled  steel  shovel  from 
the  pack.  They  carried  out  the  rock,  scooped  out 
the  filth  and  got  the  watering  place  clean  before  day- 
light, and  then  waited  for  the  slow  running  arsenous 
water  to  fill  the  hole  once  more. 

They  spread  their  little  tent  shades,  watered  the 
sand  under  them,  and,  taking  compass  and  field  glass, 
they  went  to  the  westward  and  ascended  a  sharp, 
naked,  solitary  butte.  They  surveyed  the  whole 
northern  half  of  the  exposed  position  that  met  their 
view,  and  filled  in  the  rough  map.  Though  true  in 


322  The  Desert 

directions  and  names,  this  map  was  without  scale. 
I  now  quote  from  the  letter: 

"  When  Captain  Jack  and  I  got  to  the  top  of  the 
black  butte  the  sun  was  pretty  warm,  I  can  tell  you. 
Usually  down  here  the  best  time  to  travel  is  in  No- 
vember. October  is  fair  but  Jack  says  this  is  the 
infernalest,  hottest  October  since  Adam,  and  he  says 
he  ought  to  know.  '  See  that  peak  way  down  there 
about  150  miles?  '  he  asked  me.  '  That's  old  Babo, 
about  twenty-two  hundred  feet  right  up.  It  turns 
all  colors  sometimes  at  sunrise  and  sunset.  It's  north- 
west of  Nogales — Nogales  is  Spanish  for  walnut — 
and  to  the  east  of  it,  those  two  heads  are  old  Baldy 
and  Santa  Rita.  This  side  of  old  Babo  are  the 
Pilocartos  mountains.  I've  killed  gray  squirrels  and 
wild  turkeys  by  the  dozen  there.  Old  Bab, — that's 
short  for  Baboquivera,  is  one  of  the  places  where  the 
Paps  used  to  ascend  and  watch  for  their  Moctezuma. 
Not  Montezuma,  that  word  is  nothing  but  historical 
slang,  Puffer. 

"  '  North  of  us,  across  half  a  dozen  of  those  short 
rolls  or  ridges, — just  baby  mountains — see  that  old 
Dutchman  with  his  top  hat  and  broad  shoulders? 
Eh?  Well,  that's  famous  to  anybody  who  ever  put 
his  fool  foot  down  in  this  God-forsaken  country. 
That's  the  throne  of  Moctezuma — deserted.  That's 
the  spot  where  the  Paps'  Messiah  reigned.  Don't 
you  ever  believe  a  word  of  that  missionary  rot  of 
those  ruins  up  at  Casa  Grande  northwest  of  Tucson 
on  the  Gila  being  the  throne  of  Moctezuma.  The 


The  Puffer  Cut-off  323 

scouts  out  here  are  mixed  about  whether  it  is  the 
boss  of  the  Ajo  mountains  or  an  unnamed  gang  not 
down  on  the  maps.  On  this  side  and  to  the  left  of 
the  Ajos  (that  means  garlic  mountains, — there's  a 
big  mine  stamping  day  and  night  at  the  end  of  a 
long  tunnel  under  them)  are  the  Quitobaquito  foot- 
hills. Isn't  that  a  corking  name?  Don't  you  ever 
forget  that  name.  Quitobaquita  has  two  adobe  huts 
mostly  fallen  in  and  the  finest  spring  anywhere.  The 
International  Boundary  Line  travels  over  them  one 
way,  meridian  113  the  other;  ever  hear  of  it? 

" '  A  trailer  I  met  at  Altar  yesterday  told  me 
that  the  Governments  have  already  got  their  little 
iron  post,  white  as  a  ghost,  and  man  high,  set  up 
there.  Its  number  is  172.  Don't  forget  that, 
either,  because  that  means  the  surveyors  must  be 
several  miles  west  of  it  now.  The  way  they  are 
setting  them  they  must  be  nearer  meridian  114  than 
113.  Your  man,  as  you  say,  has  to  go  to  the  front 
before  he  reports  to  headquarters  at  Buenos  Ayres, 
a  hundred  miles  east  of  the  Q.  Springs.  Only  one 
spring  though. 

1 '  Now,  Puffer,  turn  your  glass  eye  to  the  west. 
Bunch  of  peaks  over  there.  See  those  three,  blue 
black,  the  highest  one  ?  Well,  that's  Pinacate.  Yes, 
four  syllables  on  that  bug  name.  Means  a  bug  that 
stands  on  its  head  when  it  is  disturbed.  Now  see 
where  I  have  jabbed  down  that  tadpole,  got  a  tail, — 
that's  the  Agua  Duke.  Pretty  name,  isn't  it? 
Means  sweet  water.  Further  to  the  south  is  a  salt 
spring  where  the  Paps  used  to  get  their  salt.  I 


324  The  Desert 

won't  mark  it.  Now  another  thing  you  want  to 
remember  about  this  map,  which  will  never  get  into 
the  narrative  and  critical  histories  of  the  U.  S.  Agua 
Dulce  is  the  center  of  your  world! 

'Prick  up  your  ears  now,  Puffer;  Pinacate  and 
Moctezuma  are  in  an  exact  line  from  northeast  to 
southwest,  running  through  your  metropolis — Agua 
Dulce.  Now,  your  compass ;  sight  exactly  northwest 
and  that  hole  in  the  ground  two  days  away,  about 
at  the  south  end  of  a  river  dry  at  both  ends,  is  your 
dear  little  Agua  Dulce.  You  don't  pronounce  it 
right.  Try  again, — that's  right.  The  river?  The 
Sonoyta.  It's  the  center  of  a  lost  Papago  paradise. 
There  never  was  a  river  like  it  since  the  world  was 
born.  People  exist  on  it  yet,  though  no  one  can 
tell  where  it  commences  and  no  one  can  tell  where 
it  stops.  I  could  talk  all  day  about  the  Sonoyta 
river.  It's  chuck  full  of  history  and  meteorological, 
climatical  and  geological,  and — and  ' — and  as  Captain 
Jack  seemed  stuck,  I  helped  him  by  saying :  '  rashshe- 
oshenashun  details  and  perspective.'  And  hot  as  it 
was  I  told  him  about  Abe  Puffer,  and  how  he  used 
those  slambang  words.  He  snickered  a  long  time. 

"  '  Now  this  trail,  Puffer,  is  like  the  handle  of  a 
crooked  gourd,  as  I  told  you.  It  angles  off  north 
and  bends  sharp  to  the  west  when  it  strikes  the  trail 
that  reaches  Nogales,  before  it  crosses  the  Line.  It 
strikes  the  Nogales  trail  pretty  close  to  Narizo  (lot 
of  Pap  rancherias  there)  ;  there  this  trail  turns  west. 
You  come  to  the  valley  of  the  Sonoyta  and  to  its 
trading  port,  Sonoyta.  Look  sharp  or  you'll  not 


The  Puffer  Cut-off  325 

see  it.  It  was  founded  in  1699  by  old  father  Kino, 
and  by  the  Indians  about  the  time  the  morning  first 
stars  swam  in  singing.  You  know  about  that.  About 
six  miles  further  on  there  is  another  dead  town.  Not 
a  white  man  there,  though  some  big  looking  build- 
ings. A  mine  made  it;  a  mine  killed,  and  nobody 
buried  it.  Still  follow  the  Sonoyta,  ankle  deep  and 
a  jump  wide  part  of  the  time  and  occasionally  after 
cloud  bursts  200  feet  wide  and  able  to  wash  a  half 
ton  boulder  down  on  the  way  to  Agua  Dulce  if  there 
were  any  boulders. 

" '  Next  you  reach  the  Hesperides,  the  Qui- 
tobaquita  Springs.  It  was  formed  during  the 
Tertiary,  I  suppose,  and  does  business  on  its 
own  hook.  It  is  just  as  stable  as  the  Quitoba- 
quita  foothills,  while  the  Sonoyta  river  is  as  unstable 
as  a  desert  sandstorm.  Old  Garces,  who  followed 
in  the  footsteps  of  Father  Kino,  has  traveled  more 
miles  right  over  this  whole  territory,  from  the  forks 
of  the  Gila  over  to  San  Francisco  and  down  to  San 
Diego  and  home  again  at  Bac,  than  there  are  sands 
on  the  desert.  Quitabaquito  is  Indian,  Mexicano 
and  Missionary  word  rot.  It  can  only  be  explained 
by  imagination  and  intellectual  hiatus.  Old  Garces 
tried  his  quill  on  it  and  missed  it  a  mile. 

"  '  Once  in  that  Sonoyta  valley  thousands  and 
thousands  of  the  Bean  Eaters  had  their  dog,  their 
bisnaga  and  saguara  sap,  their  pitahaya  drink  and 
preserves,  their  bean  patches  and  temporales.  When 
the  July  rains  came  they  trained  the  Sonoyta 's  waters 
into  their  little  ditches  to  their  temporales,  usually 


326  The  Desert 

marked  off  by  occatillo  poles  and  mesquite  roots,  and 
raised  melons,  corn,  garlic,  squashes,  beans,  and 
beans  and  beans  and  lots  of  other  things.  The  sun 
would  glow  about  115  to  120  in  the  shade  and  scald- 
ing hot  in  the  sun,  and  those  melons  and  things 
would  grow  faster  than  Jack's  bean  stalk.  I  have 
an  idea  the  Sonoyta  paradise  was  the  birthplace  of 
the  Sedentary  Indians.  We  have  a  few  up  our  way, 
the  Moqui,  the  cliff-dwellers. 

"  '  Every  summer  during  the  centuries  they  would 
have  a  cloud  burst  and  the  devil  would  be  to  pay. 
Or  the  Apaches,  those  bloody  hyenas,  way  down 
there  in  the  southeast  of  Arizona,  would  slip  in 
and  kill  off  a  few  hundred  and  drive  off  what  stock 
they  could  steal.  And  it  went  on  so  till  the  Spaniards 
came.  Father  Kino  established  a  mission  here,  I 
forget  when,  but  it  was  flourishing  in  1751.  Then 
there  were  many  missions  and  visitas  scattered  all 
around  over  Sonora.  Garces — he's  one  of  the  four 
martyrs  the  Yumas  beat  to  death  with  clubs  up  there 
at  the  mouth  of  the  Gila  in  1782,  I  think  it  was, 
in  execrable  Spanish,  tells  all  about  them.  About 
that  time  a  swell  headed,  black  souled  Pima  Indian 
convert  named  Sarac,  got  a  lot  of  Indians  who  had 
never  been  sprinkled  and  they  rose  up  in  the  night 
and  murdered  the  converts  by  wholesale,  and  clubbed 
some  of  the  padres  to  death.  After  that  the  cloud 
bursts  had  worn  the  river  so  low  in  many  places  that 
the  Bean  Eaters  could  not  lead  in  the  water  to  their 
temporales  and  rancherias,  and  the  gardens  went  back 
to  the  sands  again.  But  there's  old  fig  trees  there 


The  Puffer  Cut-off  327 

yet  and  cottonwoods  and  deserted  ditches  that  maybe 
the  Spaniards  made.  Anyway  the  Sonoyta  valley 
paradise  dried  up  in  the  air,  and  some  few  Paps, 
too  lazy  to  walk,  hung  on.  Why,  Puffer,  the  Paps 
and  the  Pimans  had  wheatfields  down  here  one 
time. 

'  Sonoyta  valley  is  an  oasal  spot  still  clung  to 
by  a  few  slow  reds.  It's  all  on  the  Mexican  side. 
The  river  comes  out  of  the  Santa  Rosa  Mountains 
way  east,  sometimes  one  place  out  of  the  sands,  some- 
times another,  and  ends  sometimes  below  Agua  Dulce 
in  the  alkali  plain,  and  some  seasons  between  Sonoyta 
and  Santo  Domingo.  The  Paps  had  a  Messiah; 
they  have  theirs  and  the  Spanish  one  mixed  now. 
But  they  used  to  scale  old  Moctezuma  and  old  Babo 
during  the  night  and  wait  up  on  the  heights  for  the 
rising  of  the  sun.  There  they  would  watch  and 
wait  for  the  coming  of  their  risen  lord  in  the  splen- 
dors and  glories  of  the  desert  morning.  That's  his- 
tory, Puffer.  That's  the  reason  their  adobe  huts 
and  their  wickiups  have  only  one  entrance  and  that 
looks  to  the  east.  They  hope,  some  of  them  yet, 
to  see  their  Messiah  come  with  the  sunrise  and  lead 
them  to  their  longed  for  paradise  where  they  can 
eat  fried  dog,  roasted  bighorn  mountain  rams  and 
have  honey  an  inch  deep  on  their  tortilla  paste. 

"  '  But  here,  let's  finish  this  map.  That's  a  three 
days'  journey  for  the  people  ahead  to  make  Agua 
Dulce,  and  they  will  have  to  go  further  than  that 
yet  after  they  get  there.  Agua  Dulce  is  about  nine 
or  ten  miles  southwest  towards  the  Pinacates  from 


328  The  Desert 

the  Q.  springs.  At  Agua  the  road  turns  sharply 
northwest  towards  the  Tule  desert  and  extends  on 
towards  Las  Tinajas  Altas.  Your  blueprint  shows 
the  rest  of  the  road  trail  to  Yuma.  Now,  what 
you  have  to  do  is  to  get  to  Agua  Duke  first.  It's 
a  two  days'  journey  in  a  straight  line  from  here. 
They  are  one  day  ahead.  They  take  the  Sonoyta 
valley  trail  and  come  out  Agua  Dulce  way  and  then 
there's  fun  for  Winchesters;  if  you  get  there,  hide 
and  wait. 

"  '  Now,  as  you  know,  I  have  to  leave  you  to- 
morrow morning  for  Buenos  Ayres  via  the  Mexican 
collector's  at  Sasabe.  To-morrow's  the  tenth.  Be- 
fore daylight  I  leave  and  you  take  this.'  Here  all 
at  once  Captain  Jack  made  a  heavy  dotted  line  north- 
west across  the  map  ending  at  Agua  Dulce.  Then 
he  wrote  right  under  it: 

"THE  PUFFER  CUT-OFF" 

"  *  Start  across  this  cut-off,  never  made  by  mortal 
man  by  trail,  and  follow  the  trembling  nose  of  your 
compass  for  one  night  and  half  a  day  and  you  will 
easily  beat  them  out  to  Agua  Dulce.  Have  Charlie 
go  ahead  between  the  burros  two  hundred  yards  and 
signal  you  how  the  land  lies.  He'll  see  how  things 
are  almost  by  instinct  before  he  gets  there.  They 
won't  pot  him  if  they  are  waiting  for  you.  If  they 
do,  you  are  safe.  Keep  this  side  of  the  Cips,  your 
way  will  be  only  bush  rough  and  rocky,  half  the 
way.  There's  just  enough  to  eat  and  drink  along 


The  Puffer  Cut-off 


329 


the  way  to  supply  a  small  grasshopper  for  a  short 
breakfast.  I  have  gone  over  the  route  for  sneaking 
Chinks  twice.  You  can  make  it.  You  will  have 
to  bring  out  your  extra  bota  though. 


N      O 

BOUNDARY  MONUMENTS 
fel  Stone,  as  168 
*  Iron,  as  187  I 

113T15' 


THE  GREAT  PUFFER  CUT-OFF 

"  '  Now  one  thing  more,  Puffer,  and  I'm  through : 
Remember  you  go  by  needle  northwest,  deflection  now 
about  1 6  degrees.  About  a  day  and  a  half  travel. 
The  Agua  is  seepage  from  the  Sonoyta,  about  the 
last  pool  between  the  Salada  Hills  on  the  west  side 
and  the  Tank  Hills  on  the  east  hemming  the  last 
course  of  the  river.  You  double  load  with  water, 
and  send  Charlie  ahead  to  reconnoiter.  If  they  have 
passed, — you  can  expect  anything  from  those  flying 


33°  The  Desert 

devils  ahead, — follow.  But  there  is  not  another 
drop  of  good  water  for  seventy  miles  or  more.  And 
you  will  have  to  follow  the  Devil's  Trail,  with  the 
devil  ahead  of  you.' ' 

The  letter  told  several  other  interesting  things 
that  need  not  be  written  here.  It  seemed  incredible 
to  us  at  times  that  Skid  Puffer  on  such  a  mission 
should  go  into  details  as  he  did.  Perhaps  to  keep 
his  mind  from  the  dangers  ahead  of  him  he  was 
trying  to  shut  them  out  by  writing  of  things  along 
the  edge  of  his  progress. 

It  appeared  from  his  letter  that  he  finished  it  about 
two  hours  before  sunset  at  Boni,  and  then  all  moved 
on  along  the  regular  trail.  He  also  wrote  that  he 
sent  a  message  by  Jack  to  Chief  Ballard  explaining 
the  situation  and  suggesting  that  Captain  Ballard 
send  word  by  wire  or  letter  to  Indianapolis  as  he 
saw  fit.  He  would  keep  after  Robert  Greyson  and 
if  possible  beat  him  into  camp  at  the  front  and  secure 
assistance  for  the  capture.  He  asked  Captain  Bal- 
lard to  send  him  assistance  somewhere  along  the 
Sonoyta  valley  with  trail  help. 

Captain  Jack  was  to  leave  him  in  early  morning 
and  Skid  was  to  bear  off  in  the  desert  alone  with 
the  Papago.  His  letter  ended  thus: 

"  Don't  worry  the  least  little  bit  about  me.  I 
will  get  my  man.  Captain  Ballard  will  take  care  of 
this  end  if  I  do  not  win  out.  I  never  prayed  yet 
and  do  not  believe  a  man  can  interfere  much  with 


The  Puffer  Cut-off  331 

the  plans  of  God  Almighty;  I'm  a  barbarian,  as 
Tootsie  says,  in  such  things.  But  suppose  you  pray 
for  me  and  trust  me  a  little  while  longer  yet.  Any- 
way, God  bless  you  all. 

"  From  SKID." 


CHAPTER  IV 
EL  CAMINO  DEL  DIABLO 

THAT  long  letter  was  six  days  old,  for  it  was  now 
the  sixteenth  of  October.  How  we  pored  over  that 
rough  desert  map,  ill-drawn,  but  illuminating.  A 
tenderfoot  taking  an  unknown  course  on  a  trackless 
desert  in  the  night!  And  if  he  passed  the  perils 
of  the  unmarked  waste,  what  greater  dangers  he 
undertook  when  he  should  reach  his  destination  at 
Agua  Dulce! 

I  asked  the  Judge  what  he  could  have  been  think- 
ing of  in  permitting  Skid  to  make  such  a  foolhardy 
pursuit.  Allowing  a  lad  twenty  years  old,  inex- 
perienced, ignorant  of  the  region,  to  try  to  catch  a 
devil  in  ingenuity,  cruelty  and  strength!  And  the 
Judge  humbly  answered  that  he  could  no  more  re- 
strain Skid  Puffer  after  he  had  read  Lem's  letter 
than  one  could  restrain  the  winds.  Skid  had  become 
restless  as  a  caged  wolf.  Nothing  could  persuade 
him  to  forego  the  hunt.  He  simply  would  go  and 
there  was  no  other  way  about  it. 

We  tried  to  think  out  where  Skid  would  be  most 
likely  to  mail  another  letter.  There  was  not  a  bit 
of  sensible  evidence  to  help  our  guessing.  All  we 
could  do  was  to  wait  in  suspense  and  fear.  The 
days  and  the  nights  dragged.  Why  did  not  Chief 

332 


El  Camino  del  Diablo  333 

Ballard  wire  or  write?  we  asked  ourselves  again  and 
again.  But  we  got  some  comfort  out  of  that  silence. 
Tootsie  Greyson  haunted  the  public  library  and 
turned  historical  specialist.  She  at  last  found  and 
copied  for  me  from  the  Spanish : 

"  El  Camino  del  Diablo  was  at  first  one  of  the 
desert  missionary  trails  of  the  early  padres  from 
Sonora  province,  Mexico,  to  the  missions  across  the 
Arizona  desert,  via  the  Gilas,  to  California.  It  is 
a  horrible  line  of  human  passage,  marked  frequently 
with  little  Spanish  rock  crosses  flat  on  the  sands,  in- 
dicating the  final  resting  spot  of  those  who  had 
perished  from  heat  and  thirst  along  the  perilous  way. 
There  are  fifty-two  little  rock  crosses  on  the  edge 
of  the  sands  at  Las  Tinajas  Altas,  the  only  decent 
drinking  water  between  Yuma  and  Agua  Duke, 
which  is  the  last  fresh  water  pool  of  the  Sonoyta 
river  in  the  extreme  northern  part  of  the  province 
of  Sonora.  The  terrible  Tule  Desert  lies  between. 
The  Tule  water  well  is  purveyed  (or  was  in  '68 
and  '69)  from  a  dug  well  presided  over  by  a  lean 
Mexican  and  his  wife,  who  sell  to  the  miners  going 
and  coming  to  the  Colorado  river  placers.  It  is 
vile  tasting  stuff,  it  is  said,  and  causes  vomiting.  It 
is  arsenous.  The  Tule  mountains  bound  it  on  the 
north  and  south  sides  for  several  miles.  At  different 
places  along  the  trail  there  are  remnants  of  vehicles, 
frequent  bones,  the  skulls  and  ribs  of  perished  ani- 
mals dragged  hither  and  yon  by  wolves.  The  course 
is  lined  with  yellow  gray  sand.  It  is  not  fine  silt 


334  The  Desert 

or  lake  or  sea  bottom  dust,  but  rather  coarse  sands 
which  are  sprinkled  all  the  way  with  saguaros.  The 
heat  in  July,  August  and  September  is  intolerable. 
The  mercury  often  rises  to  150  degrees  in  the  sun, 
and  1 20  in  the  shade  is  not  uncommon.  One  hun- 
dred and  fifty,  the  reader  must  remember,  is  the  same 
degree  of  heat  as  scalding  water.  Sandstorms  are 
frequent  in  the  summer  and  fall,  and  overwhelm  the 
stoutest  traveler.  These  storms  sometimes  last  for 
two  or  three  days.  They  blind  and  suffocate,  and 
with  the  heat,  overcome  even  a  trail  burro,  the  safest 
thing  on  the  desert.  This  trailway  is  called  El  Ca- 
mino  del  Diablo  (meaning  the  Devil's  Trail).  It 
is  truly  well  named,  for  it  has  been  a  lure  of  Satan 
to  the  awful  perils  of  the  Arizona  desert." 

When  Tootsie  Greyson  showed  me  the  copied  pas- 
sage I  tried  to  hide  my  apprehensions. 

"What  do  you  think,  Tootsie?" 

"  There  is  only  one  solution  of  this  long  silence, 
uncle,"  she  said  bravely,  though  there  was  a  catch 
in  her  voice.  "  Skid  came  to  Agua  Dulce  too  late, 
found  they  had  passed,  and  is  on  the  Devil's  Trail 
out  there  somewhere  in  the  Yuma  desert."  There 
was  a  hysteric  flash  of  her  hands  to  her  face,  but 
instantly  she  controlled  herself  and  went  on  with 
a  little  faltering  in  her  confident  manner,  "  His  com- 
pass land  points  are  too  well  in  evidence  for  him  to 
be  misguided." 

"  But,  Tootsie,  he  may  have  met  Robert  Greyson 
there  and — " 


El  Camino  del  Diablo  335 

" No;  if  there  was  a  fatal  contest  one  or  the  other 
would  go  back  to  headquarters.  The  best  thing  to 
do  is  to  telegraph  Chief  Ballard  at  Buenos  Ayres." 

"But,  Tootsie!"  I  exclaimed,  with  a  sudden 
thought,  "  Skid  might  lie  there  in  wait  till  Robert 
Greyson  came  back  from  the  front." 

"  Skid  could  not  wait.  That  would  be  impossible. 
He  followed." 

Was  that  intuition  or  logic  ?  Later  history  showed 
she  was  right. 

Skid  Puffer,  the  records  show,  reached  Agua  Dulce 
a  little  after  noon  of  the  second  day.  That  feat 
seems  almost  incredible  when  the  distances  are  con- 
sidered. There  was  not  a  single  hoof-track  to  show 
that  any  one  had  passed.  In  a  short  time,  nearly 
exhausted,  they  refilled  their  skins  and,  removing 
any  trace  that  might  lead  to  their  discovery,  hid  them- 
selves to  the  eastward  behind  some  organ  pipe  cactus 
and  mesquite  bushes  with  the  Papago  on  watch. 
Skid,  exhausted,  went  to  sleep.  He  was  to  take 
his  turn  at  sunset. 

When  he  awoke  it  was  from  the  cold — in  a  desert, 
too,  and  the  white  of  dawn  on  the  Ajos.  The 
Papago  and  one  burro  were  gone. 

It  is  from  many  sources  of  information  that  the 
following  chapters  fill  in  the  record.  A  small  part 
is  from  a  little  blood-stained  diary,  sweat  soiled  and 
warped  with  heat,  much  from  the  testimony  of  a 
famous  trial  at  Indianapolis,  the  evidence  of  Cap- 
tain Jack,  Chief  Ballard,  Lem  Mason,  and  several 
letters. 


33^ 


The  Desert 


The  little  vest  pocket  notebook  has  an  entry  for 
Agua  Duke  that  reads: 

"  Agua  Dulce,  October  1 2th,  4  o'clock  a.m.  The 
Papago  and  one  burro,  with  supplies  missing.  De- 
serted. Cerro  Saladas  on  west;  Tank  hills  on  east; 
alkali  pools  southwest.  Charlie  went  up  trail  Q. 


THE  DEVIL'S  TRAIL 

springs  way.  Greyson  party  passed  early.  Camped 
here  though.  Pinacate  exactly  southwest.  Mocte- 
zuma  exactly  northeast.  Monument  by  glass  north 
end  Cerro  Saladas,  No.  175,  stone.  I  follow.  About 
seven  cool  night  hours  to  Tule  Well.  Double  load 
with  water  here.  Will  angle  off  west  when  north 
of  boundary,  and  follow  Surveyors'  new  trail.  Get 
help  at  front  if  I  can  find  Surveyors." 

Before  Skid  rushed  off  after  his  prey  or  to  the 
front, — who  knows? — he  double  loaded  with  water 
and  speeded  on  as  fast  as  his  refreshed  beasts  could 


El  Camino  del  Diablo  337 

carry  him.  Two  hours  after  daylight  he  had  passed 
the  Repressa  to  the  left, — the  "  stone  dam  "  which 
collects  a  seepage  that  lasts  throughout  the  latter  part 
of  the  year.  At  ten  o'clock  the  sun  poured  down 
scorching  beams.  He  came  to  the  last  ridge  roll. 
He  stopped  his  panting  animals  and  stole  up  to  the 
edge  and  peered  over.  The  yuccas  were  dancing  in 
the  boiling  waves  of  heat.  To  the  far  right  were  the 
Pintas  and  farther,  a  little  to  their  left,  dimly  seen, 
were  the  three  black  buttes  of  the  Cabeza  de  la 
Prieta.  Close  at  hand  the  grotesque  saguaros 
writhed.  To  the  left  of  the  trail  several  white  monu- 
ment posts  stepped  on  and  upward  to  the  southern 
parallel  range  of  the  Tule  Mountains.  Directly  in 
front,  like  three  blackish  fishing  bobs  on  rippling 
water,  he  saw  something  in  the  dust  of  the  trail. 

The  sand-ridge  ran  diagonally  southwest  to  the 
rising  lava  breakers  of  the  range.  He  ran  back  to 
his  animals  and  madly  urged  them  on  the  near  side 
of  the  sandroll  to  the  south  Tule  Mountains.  Trav- 
eling in  a  desert  hollow  in  the  soft  desert  sand  in 
the  middle  of  the  day  is  almost  intolerable.  At  one 
o'clock  he  reached  the  foot  of  a  saw-toothed,  lava- 
blasted  peak  opposite  the  Tule  Well.  The  cactal 
growths  obscured  his  animals  from  view.  As  he 
came  to  a  rock-shaded  passage,  his  mule  sank  at 
his  feet  and  died.  The  burro,  throbbing  with  ex- 
haustion, dropped  to  its  knees.  He  tore  the  packs 
off  each,  watered  his  spent  burro,  hid  two  water 
botas  in  the  sand,  hung  one  in  the  shade  of  a  rock, 
scattered  some  screw  beans  on  a  rock  for  his  burro, 


338  The  Desert 

and  sank  down  in  the  shade  of  a  rocky  cul-de-sac 
nearly  done  for. 

It  was  an  hour  of  sunset  when  he  awoke  refreshed. 
The  air  was  less  ovenlike.  And,  blessed  sight,  the 
burro  was  contentedly  standing,  perhaps  asleep. 
Grasping  his  rifle  he  began  ascending  the  heights  in 
the  shadow.  As  he  reached  the  higher  places  he 
worked  around  to  the  south.  At  the  greatest  alti- 
tude he  began  warily  to  squirrel  around  to  the  eastern 
side.  With  his  field  glasses  he  swept  the  eastern 
plain. 

Three  miles  to  the  east  and  a  little  to  the  right 
was  the  latest  camp  on  the  Camino  del  Diablo  at 
the  Tule  Well!  Under  a  temporary  awning  by  a 
fallen  adobe  house  was  a  white  man  stretched  out, 
fanning  himself  with  his  broad  hat.  Skid  Puffer 
started  as  he  suddenly  saw  coming  in  on  the  trail 
from  Agua  Duke  the  two  Yaq  guides.  They  were 
staggering  along,  both  Indians  at  times  furiously 
lashing  their  exhausted  brutes.  When  within  a  hun- 
dred yards  of  the  camp  well  one  of  the  animals  sank 
down  in  the  tule  and  was  hidden  from  view.  The 
Indians  then  deserting  them  ran  ahead  to  the  well. 
The  other  mule  weaved,  staggered,  fell,  rose  again 
making  desperate  efforts  to  reach  the  blessed  water. 

The  man  under  the  awning  rose  up,  excitedly  ran 
out  and  seemed  to  be  trying  to  interpret  the  signs 
and  meanings  of  the  guides.  They  pointed  back- 
ward on  the  trail,  across  toward  the  figure  on  the 
height,  pointed  ahead  and  then  went  to  the  well 
and  drank.  The  white  man  walked  back  and  forth, 


El  Camino  del  Diablo  339 

said  something  to  the  guides  and  pointed  to  the  mule 
in  the  tules.  But  the  guides  ate  and  smoked,  then 
rose  and,  carrying  a  skin  of  water  out  to  the  mule 
flat  in  the  tules,  dashed  water  on  it.  Then  they 
returned,  got  more  water  and  dashed  it  on  the  beast 
that  lay  half  dead  on  the  trail.  It  rose  weakly  and 
stumbled  in  to  the  Tule  well. 

Skid  saw  the  white  man  stand  motionless  for  a 
few  moments.  Then  all  was  excitement  again.  The 
fresh  mule  was  reloaded  and  the  white  man  stood 
by  it  pointing  ahead  towards  the  Gilas. 

His  victim  was  about  to  escape  to  Las  Tinajas  in 
the  Gila  Pass  on  the  trail  to  Yuma!  He  turned 
his  glass  to  the  Gilas  and  saw  a  leaden  yellowish 
spot, — if  that  was  Las  Tinajas  Pass  which  his  blue- 
prints showed,  it  was  at  least  twenty  miles  distant. 
The  sun  was  getting  lower,  the  sands  were  cooling; 
the  figure  on  the  mule  at  the  well  was  clear  to  Skid's 
vision. 

Suddenly  the  man  became  alive.  He  called  the 
Indians  out  and  was  pointing  northwesterly.  There 
were  exaggerated  gesticulations,  then  quiet;  they  re- 
turned to  their  resting  places.  Presently  the  white 
man  sprang  on  his  loaded  mule,  started  off  a  few 
paces,  stopped  and  seemed  to  be  in  deep  thought. 
After  a  few  minutes  he  gave  a  quick  upward  face 
flash  at  the  lowering  sun,  hesitated,  dismounted  and 
ran  back  and  sat  down  in  the  shade  with  the  guides. 

And  those  few  minutes  that  Robert  Greyson  de- 
layed in  his  journey  to  Las  Tinajas,  later  dragged 
in  his  fate. 


34°  The  Desert 

It  was  long  after  that  time  when  I  found  out 
something  of  what  passed  in  Robert  Greyson's  mind 
as  he  sat  there  on  his  mule  motionless,  before  the 
Tule  desert  well.  Who  was  this  implacable  devil 
filled  with  fury  and  incredible  ardor  on  his  trail? 
His  guide  had  told  him  about  the  big-eyed  white 
man  at  Hermosillo.  Later  he  knew  that  the  dare- 
devil Arizona  deputy  ranger  with  this  white  man 
was  after  him.  He  had  found  at  Altar  that  Black 
Jack  had  a  warrant  for  his  arrest.  For  what?  Is- 
sued by  whom?  He  did  not  know.  He,  himself, 
was  several  days  late  now,  and  had  been  nearly  four 
weeks  on  his  mission,  and  who  could  know  of  his 
route  but  Chief  Ballard?  Then  Chief  Ballard  must 
have  telegraphed  East  and  found  that  his  letter  of 
recommendation  was  a  forgery.  Was  Judge  Grey- 
son  at  the  bottom  of  it? 

It  must  have  been  his  stepfather  who  hated  him 
that  wished  to  catch  him  for  the  punishment  of  the 
law.  Yes;  and  that  white  man  must  be  the  young 
giant  who  had  fought  him  in  the  Greyson  dooryard 
in  June.  But  who  was  this  enemy?  What  could 
he  want?  What  could  he  do? — this  muscular  demon 
who  had  left  that  splash  of  blood  on  his  white  shirt 
front? 

Chief  Ballard  must  have  undone  him  with  wires 
and  letters;  he  who  had  sent  the  official  deputy  ranger 
on  his  trail,  his  secret  course.  Who  else  could  know 
his  route?  But  Black  Jack,  the  desert  terror,  with 
the  Papago,  had  deserted  this  wolf  on  his  trail.  In 
the  devil's  name,  how  had  this  lone  white  trailer 


El  Camino  del  Diablo  341 

gained  a  day  on  his  fast  animals?  Had  he  not  him- 
self ruined  the  Boni  well? 

How  could  this  blood-hungry  shadow  now  rise 
up  out  of  the  desert  right  at  his  heels? 

His  guides  had  told  him  that  no  man  could  travel 
a  waterless,  trackless  desert  at  night.  And  why  this 
ceaseless  urgency,  this  ten  days'  hot  trailing  scarcely 
without  stopping?  And  supposing  this  were  true, 
when  the  trailer  was  in  reach  of  the  pursued,  why 
had  he  run  away?  His  guides  had  told  him  that 
and  more.  He  was  the  big-eyed  white  tenderfoot 
seen  at  Hermosillo,  the  man  with  Black  Jack,  who 
had  shot  at  them  below  Altar.  Now  the  deputy 
had  gone  back  and  left  the  white  man  to  himself. 
But  why? 

Ah !  happy  solution !  It  came  to  him  like  a  flash. 
Captain  Jack  had  gone  back  to  headquarters  to  be 
ready  there  with  warrants ;  the  white  man  had  angled 
off  to  the  front  and  was  waiting  there  for  him.  What 
luck!  he  would  hasten  on  the  trail  to  California. 
He  would  leave  his  camp  guides  behind  him  one 
camp  on  the  trail  prepared  for  anything.  They 
would  follow  him  to  Yuma.  He  would  discharge 
them  there. 

Skid  Puffer,  narrowly  watching  the  mute  figure  at 
the  well,  could  only  guess  at  his  intentions.  He 
caught  his  breath,  his  eyes  gleaming  like  a  cat's  as 
he  saw  the  white  man  suddenly  dismount,  throw  his 
hat  aside  and  run  into  the  shade.  He  had  seen,  too, 
that  quick,  upward  flash  of  the  face  at  the  descending 
sun  as  he  threw  himself  down.  That  meant  he 


342  The  Desert 

would  wait  till  the  sands  had  cooled.  He  would 
start  at  dusk.  The  mule  stood  there  loaded,  ready 
to  start,  and  the  only  sign  of  life  it  showed  was  the 
lazy  switch  of  its  tail. 

When  Skid  Puffer  saw  that  blind  stare  of  the 
white  man  at  the  Tule  well  and  guessed  it  was  his 
intention  to  wait,  he  slowly,  cautiously  began  to  with- 
draw, as  a  panther  at  bay  withdraws  to  assume  a 
safer  and  surer  position.  He  stole  slyly  around  to 
the  sun  side  of  the  rocks  and  breathlessly  sighted 
his  compass  at  the  olive  colored  oasis  at  the  southern 
foot  of  the  Gilas. 

"  Forty-four  west  of  north,  sixteen  for  deflection — 
twenty-eight  west  of  north — Las  Tinajas  Altas." 
He  softly  stuffed  his  compass  in  his  pocket  and  pulled 
out  his  blue  print.  He  nosed  over  it  as  his  breast 
heaved  with  suppressed  excitement,  He  understood 
the  route  now.  He  shot  erect,  crushed  the  map  into 
his  pocket  and  began  to  jump  recklessly  down  the 
sun  side  of  the  rocks. 

When  on  the  lower  places  he  tore  blindly  through 
the  ill-smelling  greasewood,  the  cat  claw  acacia,  the 
needles  of  the  prickly  fig,  the  cruel  "  chollas,"  the 
thorns  of  the  ocatilla,  over  the  lava  debris  and, 
breathing  like  a  racer,  rushed  on  to  his  sleeping 
burro.  He  jerked  the  water  bag  from  its  rocky 
cleft  and  dashed  some  of  its  contents  over  his  head 
and  shoulders.  A  minute  later  he  opened  his  packs, 
and  spilled  most  of  their  contents  out  on  the  sand. 
Taking  a  handful  of  food,  a  blanket,  his  shackles, 
one  burro  feed,  he  wrapped  them  and  tying  them 


El  Camino  del  Diablo  343 

to  the  water  bag  he  threw  the  bundle  across  the 
burro's  withers.  That  was  the  lightest  load  a  pack 
burro  ever  carried  on  the  Yuma  desert  trail.  Skid 
buried  the  discarded  stuff  in  the  sand,  -and  hugging 
the  base  of  the  range  in  the  shadows  he  whipped  his 
animal  on.  As  the  sun  began  to  back  under  the 
western  rim  he  stopped,  climbed  a  declivity  and  gazed 
toward  the  Tule  well. 

The  mule  with  a  man  on  its  back  stood  there 
motionless.     He  was  almost  ready  to  start. 


CHAPTER  V 
THE  DEVIL'S  PARADISE 

SKID  urged  his  burro  westward  over  the  cooling 
sands.  The  grinding  hoofs,  the  complaining  screak 
of  the  pack  leathers,  the  gush  of  the  water  in  the 
pigskin,  all  seemed  loud  to  his  apprehensive  ears. 
Once,  twice,  thrice,  he  nosed  over  his  compass.  His 
course  so  far  was  true. 

He  looked  at  his  watch — eleven  o'clock.  He 
turned  his  panting  beast  directly  north,  and  came 
suddenly  upon  the  hard  trail  bed.  He  stopped, 
snatched  his  blanket  off  and,  unfolding  it  before  him 
for  a  guard,  lighted  a  match  and  closely  scrutinized 
the  trail.  Not  a  mark  of  passage.  He  listened 
intently;  not  a  sound.  He  bent  his  ear  to  the  dust, 
— only  the  eternal  emptiness  and  silence. 

He  beat  his  burro  to  a  weak  gallop,  a  gait  that 
a  pack  burro  never  knew;  then  stopped.  How  far 
was  he  in  advance?  Perhaps  he  could  hide  there 
by  that  saguaro  and  wait.  He  shuddered.  No; 
he  could  not  do  that.  He  would  be  fair;  he  would 
capture  his  man  face  to  face  in  the  open.  He  would 
reach  the  water  tanks  first. 

He  was  filled  with  exciting  fears.  A  coyote  sat 
by  the  trail,  stared  at  him,  sneaked  after  him  for  a 

344 


The  Devil's  Paradise  345 

little  distance,  then  slunk  away.  A  lone  yucca  seemed 
like  an  Indian.  How  human  a  saguaro  looked  with 
its  grotesquely  imploring  arms !  How  frequent  now 
the  white  bones — ribs  and  skulls.  He  whipped  his 
burro.  It  feebly  galloped  a  few  minutes  and  then 
slowed  down.  He  gazed  back,  upward  at  the  blaz- 
ing desert  stars.  He  stopped  again.  All  was  silent 
as  a  tomb,  the  coyote  was  gone,  the  air  was  cool. 
Only  the  empty,  endless  silence. 

Presently  there  was  a  whitening  on  the  sunrise 
side  of  the  sky.  He  looked  at  his  timepiece;  three 
o'clock.  He  guessed  he  was  three  miles  from  the 
Tinajas.  He  left  the  trail  a  hundred  feet  and,  paral- 
leling it,  went  on.  He  would  leave  no  marks  for 
Greyson's  eyes. 

A  half-hour  later  the  pass  was  before  him;  the 
horned  moon  had  sunk  behind  the  Gilas  and  the 
trail  was  dark.  The  mighty  black  head  of  Las 
Tinajas  glowered  over  him.  He  listened.  He 
heard  no  sound  before  or  behind  him,  but  the  en- 
trance to  the  pass  was  full  of  mottled  shadows, 
breathlessly  still,  cavernous,  black. 

He  hid  his  beast  far  to  the  right  in  the  saguaro 
oasis,  and,  exhausted,  fell  asleep. 

Las  Tinajas  Altas  at  the  Gila  Pass  is  the  central 
lure  of  that  long  furnace-hot  highway  between  Quito- 
baquita  spring  and  Yuma  City  on  the  red  Colorado. 
On  the  gray-white  sands  near  this  yellow-green  spot 
fifty-two  white  rock  crosses  mark  a  part  of  El  Ca- 
mino  del  Diablo's  nameless  human  toll.  Those 
seven  high  tanks  of  delicious  water' invite  for  a  hun- 


346  The  Desert 

dred  miles.  Father  Kino,  the  immortal  pathfinder 
of  the  Sonoran  and  Arizona  deserts,  discovered  them 
in  1699. 

In  rare  seasons  the  lowest  reservoir  is  almost  dry. 
A  few  yards  higher  the  second  tank  is  reached  by 
scaling  sharp  rising  ledges,  difficult  for  a  traveler 
half  spent  with  heat  and  thirst.  Higher  up,  but 
far  more  easily  climbed,  is  the  third  tank  or  reservoir, 
from  which  a  thin  line  of  water  flashes  and  spits  in 
a  rocky  crackway  down  to  the  second  bowl.  Many  a 
half  demented  victim  of  the  desert,  stumbling  away 
from  the  emptied  or  dry  bowl  at  the  bottom  and 
seeing  in  his  agonies  that  flashing  trickle  of  water 
racing  down  to  the  main  catch-all,  has  been  wrought 
into  a  new  frenzy  with  the  music  of  its  flow. 

Chief  Ballard,  when  explaining  the  Government 
maps  to  Skid  Puffer,  had  said: 

"  If  the  desert  traveler  can  beat  the  devil  at  his 
own  game  to  this  spot,  then  he  is  safe — unless  the 
lower  reservoir  is  dry.  Then  his  imps  have  a  holi- 
day. The  prospector,  emigrant  or  fool  finding  it 
dry  and  hearing  a  trickling  sound,  looks  up  and 
sees  the  running  water  drop  into  the  second  pool. 
Then  he  knows  he  is  safe.  That  is,  if  he  is  not 
entirely  played  out.  It  is  only  a  few  yards  of  a 
hands  and  knees  climb.  But  if  the  fellow  is  faint, 
or  very  weak,  perhaps  feverish,  with  his  tongue  fill- 
ing his  mouth  full,  it's  different.  He  begins  to 
wiggle  up  and  may  get  nearly  to  the  top  when,  still 
more  heated  by  the  effort,  the  sunbeat  and  the  labor 
of  climbing,  he  slips,  claws  around,  weaves,  pauses, 


The  Devil's  Paradise  347 

wavers,  buckles  up  and  down  he  comes  in  a  bunch 
like  a  squirrel  shot  out  of  a  treetop.  If  a  man  is 
equipped  right  and  uses  his  judgment,  the  Camino 
can  be  made  without  extra  danger.  Never  go  across 
that  last  stretch  in  summer  except  at  night.  Double 
load  with  water  and  travel  light  as  you  can." 

When  Skid  Puffer  awoke  the  sun  was  up  an  hour. 
As  he  lay  gazing  at  the  sky,  he  thought  at  first  he 
was  in  some  enchanted  land  of  mystery  and  dreams. 
Then  he  sat  up. 

The  black,  angled,  broken  camp  of  the  Letchu- 
guillas  to  the  immediate  south  began  to  rear  their 
low  heads  into  a  roseate  rank  of  crimson  sentinels. 
The  Gilas  peaks  and  towers  and  battlements  lifted 
higher  and  higher,  paused,  trembled,  then  reached 
across  one  to  another,  as  if  in  morning  salutations. 
To  the  southeast  the  three  black  crowns  of  the  Ca- 
beza  de  la  Prieta  became  blue,  orange,  pink,  then 
stood  up  in  a  mass  of  glowing  crimson.  A  few 
leagues  above  the  head  of  the  gulf  old  Pinacate 
purpled  like  the  robes  of  a  king,  surrounded  by  his 
five  hundred  spent  crater  peaks,  stood  against  the 
encroachments  of  the  mighty  sand  dunes  from  the 
sea. 

In  the  sky  was  a  stilling  sea  of  rippling  glory,  a 
glowing  ocean  over  the  great  Cuchan  waste.  Water, 
water,  water  everywhere,  blue  greenish,  amethystine, 
golden, — water,  water,  water,  the  longed  for  heaven, 
the  eternal  dream  of  torturing  thirst  of  man  and 
nature,  the  devil's  desert  paradise. 

This  was  Skid  Puffer's  first  glance  into  the  Super- 


348  The  Desert 

nal,  and  forgetting  human  perils  he  gazed  enraptured 
in  earth's  most  enticing  lure.  He  jumped  up  sud- 
denly, breathlessly,  for  he  saw  coming  towards  him 
in  the  upper  seas  a  monster  man  astride  a  more  mon- 
strous mule.  Instantly  he  knew  this  was  Robert 
Greyson,  now  almost  to  the  tanks,  but  upside  down. 
It  was  a  grotesque  vision  and  he  could  not  under- 
stand, but  he  swiftly  sped  to  the  entrance  of  the 
cul-de-sac  and,  with  his  gun  ready,  hid  behind  the 
rocks.  Amazed,  he  saw  in  the  lovely  ocean  to  the 
southwest,  three  mis-magnified  ogres,  one  large,  the 
others  smaller,  riding  on  a  gallop  erect  but  apparently 
far  away. 

He  turned  to  the  apparition  on  the  trail,  and  saw 
the  reflection  grow  smaller,  detach,  dissolve  and 
slowly  disappear.  He  looked  back  and  beheld  the 
three  men  ride  through  the  upper  sky-trail  and  van- 
ish. The  water  here  and  there  had  gone  out  of 
the  heavens;  the  Pinacates  were  turning  dark  and 
crouching  lower;  the  Cabezas  were  squatting  low, 
and  the  black  was  coming  back  again;  the  heavens 
were  breaking  up. 


CHAPTER  VI 
THE  BATTLE  IN  THE  CUL-DE-SAC 

HE  had  scarcely  time  to  hide  when  Robert  Grey- 
son,  watchful,  suspicious,  his  Winchester  ready, 
paused  at  the  entrance  of  the  cul-de-sac.  He  did 
not  dismount  at  once;  all  appeared  safe  to  him  at 
last.  His  gun  in  half  aim,  he  walked  slowly  along, 
his  eyes  searching  for  signs  of  an  enemy.  He  paused 
by  a  rock;  the  place  seemed  silent  and  dead.  The 
heat  boiled.  Suddenly  he  set  his  gun  by  the  rock, 
tore  at  his  garments  and  stripped  himself  to  his 
waist.  Rivulets  of  sweat  were  coursing  down  his 
dusty  cheeks.  He  ran  past  the  croucher  behind  the 
rocky  wall  and  dipped  his  heated  face  into  the  cool- 
ing pool.  As  he  bent  and  drank  deeply  his  white 
flesh  glistened.  He  dashed  water  over  his  shoulders, 
into  his  face,  on  his  huge  hairy  chest.  He  stood 
erect,  yawned,  stretched,  then  plunged  his  head  into 
the  water  again  up  to  his  ears,  jerked  erect,  and  with 
his  chin  poised  in  the  air  like  a  bird,  permitted  the 
cooling  water  to  run  down  his  broad  back. 

Skid  Puffer  also  stripped  to  his  waist,  his  gun  in 
one  hand,  his  shackles  in  the  other,  stole  out  as 
cautiously  as  a  fish  otter.  He  is  within  thirty  feet, 
twenty,  fifteen,  twelve,  he  raises  his  gun  in  aim.  The 

349 


350  The  Desert 

bather  dips  in  the  water  once  more,  throws  it  over 
him  in  great  handfuls,  shakes  himself  like  a  bathing 
sparrow,  his  movements  showing  the  huge  walls  and 
sheets  and  curves  of  muscles  writhing  under  his  white 
skin. 

Robert  Greyson  faintly  hears  an  unusual  sound, 
stops,  listens  and  is  about  to  plunge  his  face  again. 
There  is  a  pantherish  shuffle,  he  whirls  around.  In- 
stant terror  sets  his  body  rigid  as  if  carven;  his 
face  ashens  with  horror  and  despair.  Neither  speak 
nor  move.  He  has  not  a  single  chance  for  escape 
or  defense.  Vengeance,  tiger-like,  was  so  sure,  it 
was  playing  with  its  prey. 

But  the  pistol  did  not  roar.  Mumbling  incoher- 
ently the  ambushed  man  began  to  waver  and  sank 
to  his  knees,  wriggled  his  face  in  his  arms,  shut  his 
eyes,  then  waited  for  the  roar.  Only  the  silence  of 
the  desert.  He  heard  the  click  of  the  hammer  stop 
at  the  first  clutch;  still  the  silence,  the  waiting.  With 
convulsive  little  jerks  the  face  of  the  doomed  man 
began  to  worm  up,  out.  His  rattish  eyes  gleamed 
at  last  over  his  elbows,  at  the  poised  gun.  With  in- 
finite slowness  the  thumb  began  to  haul  back  the  gun- 
hammer  to  the  last  notch.  It  clicks  sharply.  The 
gun  waits. 

"Shoot!  shoot!"  he  screamed  as  he  blindly 
flung  his  arms  wide  in  the  air. 

"  Throw  that  gun  down  or  I  will  blow  your  head 
off." 

Skid  turned  like  a  flash.  A  determined,  fat-faced 
man  with  a  deadly  eye  gleam,  stood  crouched,  ready. 


The  Battle  in  the  Cul-de-Sac          351 

The  big  man's  finger  was  on  the  trigger,  a  big  hole 
of  blue  steel  was  close  to  Skid's  nose,  and  Skid  Puffer 
was  on  the  hair-line  edge  of  life  and  death. 

In  turning  Skid  Puffer  had  lowered  his  aim;  he 
had  no  chance.  The  man  with  the  Winchester  had 
the  drop. 

"  Lieutenant  Sykes,  take  his  gun."  A  slim  young 
man  ran  in,  bent  low  sidewise,  placed  his  cocked  re- 
volver on  Skid  Puffer's  hand,  then  dropping  his  own 
as  its  muzzle  touched  the  hand,  he  snatched  Skid's 
gun  to  the  ground.  That  was  cat-like  in  quickness. 
The  man  with  the  Winchester  stepped  back,  straight- 
ened and  rested  his  rifle  on  the  earth  with  his  big  hand 
over  the  lock. 

"Wat's  lay,  Bob?" 

Skid  saw  the  glance  of  recognition.  Not  another 
word  for  an  age.  The  sun  beat  down  hotter  than 
ever.  The  wary  lizard  shot  along  the  rocks;  a 
woodpecker  hammered  on  a  dead  bole  of  a  near  sa- 
guaro;  a  horned  viper  waddled  out  of  a  hole  in 
the  rocks  and  stared  at  the  men  in  green-eyed 
malignity;  yet  no  word.  The  master  man  with  his 
gun  muzzle  on  the  earth  and  his  huge  sunburned 
hand  over  the  lock,  the  slim  stranger  to  the  side  with 
his  hand  clutched  over  his  revolver-butt  in  his  belt, 
Skid  white  and  silent,  Greyson  erect  and  panting, 
made  a  picture  as  ominous  and  as  silent  as  the  desert. 
There  was  not  the  slightest  motion  except  the  twist- 
ing eyeballs  of  the  master  man  as  he  turned  from  one 
to  the  other  of  the  stilled  combatants. 

"  Wat's  the  lay,  Bob,  I  ast  you?  " 


352  The  Desert 

"  This  wolf  has  been  on  my  trail  for  weeks  trying 
to  kill  me.  I  don't  even  know  who  he  is.  Let  the 
dirty  dog  take  me  if  he  can."  And  Bob  Greyson 
stepped  a  pace  forward  but  stopped  instantly  as  the 
fat  man  began  to  raise  his  gun  menacingly. 

"  Wat's  the  lay,  young  man,"  he  asked  of  Skid. 

*'  I'm  going  to  take  him,"  were  the  only  words 
that  Skid  Puffer  uttered. 

"  Lieutenant  Sykes,  mark  off  two  lines  wall  to  wall 
seven  steps  apart.  Gentlemen,  step  in." 

Greyson  stepped  in.  The  line  was  outside  of 
Skid's  position. 

"  Gentlemen,  the  first  man  that  steps  outside  them 
lines  'less  ordered  er  knocked  out'll  get  a  steel-nose 
45-40.  Lieutenant,  hoi'  your  gun  an'  do  the  calling. 
Gentlemen,  fight  it  out." 

Skid  Puffer  threw  his  manacle  at  the  Lieutenant's 
feet  and  turned  and  faced  Robert  Greyson.  Four 
witnesses  afterward  told  how  went  the  battle  in  that 
oven-like  cul-de-sac  of  Las  Tinajas  Altas  on  the 
thirteenth  of  October.  Lieutenant  Sykes  testified: 

"  When  the  scout  told  me  to  take  my  gun  and  do 
the  calling,  I  stepped  up  and  said :  '  Gentlemen,  one 
round,  no  knockout  count,  no  hitting  below  the  belt, 
a  regular  stand-up  to  a  finish.'  Then  I  looked  to  the 
scout  and  he  said,  '  Right  you  air,  Lieutenant.' 

"  There  they  stood  like  white  giants,  six  foot  or 
over,  two  hundred  pounders,  and  muscles  like  big 
prizefighters.  The  man  Puffer  had  the  longest  reach 
and  better  neck,  his  skin  whiter;  this  defendant  Grey- 
son, — Bob,  the  scout  called  him, — had  a  darker  skin 


The  Battle  in  the  Cul-de-Sac         353 

and  heavier  shoulders.  But  I  tell  you  there  was 
not  much  picking  a  choice;  they  both  looked  like 
big  untamed  fighting  machines.  I  could  tell  by  their 
muscles  that  they'd  understand,  so  I  said :  '  Marquis 
o'  Queensbury  straight  with  no  count.  Let  er  go, 
gents.' 

"  There  was  a  jump  and  both  met  in  the  air,  kind 
of  reared  up  like  fighting  lions.  Then  there  was 
such  fanning  and  ducking  and  tearing  rights  one 
would  think  they  would  rip  their  arms  off.  I  don't 
think  there  was  a  square  punch  the  first  minute.  I 
saw  it  was  for  blood,  but  them  men  was  using  foot 
work  and  head  work  just  like  they  had  been  used 
to  prizefighting  all  their  lives. 

"  It  was  the  fastest  minute  I  ever  saw  with  big 
ones.  Then  they  slowed  down  and  it  was  grunty 
lefts  with  guards.  And  you  don't  want  to  forget, 
it  was  hot  as  an  oven  right  there,  without  rounds 
or  towels.  Them  bare  fists  and  left  hooks  begin 
to  smash  the  skin  and  the  red  begun  to  run  down. 
Maybe  it  was  two  minutes  of  the  swiftest  left  hooks 
you  ever  saw,  and  I  says  to  myself,  '  It's  a  quick 
down.'  It  looked  to  me  any  one  of  them  rights 
they'd  been  using  with  naked  knuckles  landing  square 
'most  anywhere  had  a  sleeper  in  it. 

"  They  slowed  down,  feinted  a  few  seconds,  both 
panting.  Then  they  flew  in  with  those  lefts  harder 
than  ever,  the  fastest  I  ever  saw,  and  I  guess  every 
one  connecting.  Then  like  lightning  up  come  Puf- 
fer's right  plum  clean  under  Greyson's  guard  and 
them  bloody  knuckles  went  flush  right  in  the  top  of 


354  The  Desert 

Greyson's  top  chest.  Lord!  excuse  me,  your  honor! 
it  was  like  a  kick  of  a  mule.  You  could  have  heard 
it  a  block. 

"  And  Greyson  went  stumbling  back  fifteen  feet 
an'  sat  down  hard  two  feet  outside  the  line.  I  think 
that  welt  carried  him  two  yards  clean.  But  he  came 
back  on  the  run,  crazy  mad  with  a  look  in  his  eye 
that  would  scare  the  devil.  He  rushed  Puffer  all 
around  the  ring,  though  Puffer  was  raining  lefts  in 
like  piston  rods  and  Greyson  not  landing  a  single 
right  square. 

"  The  skin  on  both  their  chests  was  broken,  their 
arms  smeary,  and  the  blood  was  running  down  below 
their  waists.  Puffer  was  just  geared  to  the  right 
pitch;  Greyson  was  too  high,  and  was  running  down 
the  fastest.  There  wasn't  a  mark  yet  on  Puffer's 
face,  but  Greyson  had  one  eye  shut  and  his  face  was 
all  puffed  up  and  skinned  with  glancing  blows.  He 
was  very  dirty  too. 

"  I  was  looking  all  the  time,  but  before  I  knew 
Greyson  sank  down  kind  of  weak  and  Puffer  jumped 
in  to  finish  him — and  ran  right  into  a  haymaker. 
It  caught  Puffer  right  over  the  heart;  I  saw  where 
it  landed  plain.  Puffer  went  back,  maybe  ten  feet, 
stumbling  and  falling  flat  on  his  back.  That  was 
the  fiercest  punch  in  the  game  so  far.  Puffer  was 
pretty  slow  getting  up.  Coughed  twice,  and  then  he 
came  back  slow.  He  was  taking  the  benefit  of  the 
count  without  having  it.  Both  were  dirty  now  and 
the  sweat  was  running  through  the  smear. 

"  Puffer  came  back  slow  and  set.     Greyson  set. 


The  Battle  in  the  Cul-de-Sac         355 

I  saw  right  away  both  were  using  their  heads.  Just 
as  I  guessed  I  knew  it  would  be  fiddling  now  waiting 
for  rights.  They  were  both  killing  hot.  Puffer 
seemed  to  tempt  Greyson;  and  three  times  Greyson 
fanned  the  air  with  those  right  sleepers  that  did 
not  connect.  Puffer  landed  square  just  once,  a  center 
shot  in  the  chest  and  the  blood  and  flesh  and  dirt 
splashed  out  like  from  the  heads  of  butting  rams. 
I  saw  just  as  he  did  he  was  losin'  steam.  So  he 
covered  up  and  smothered,  and  Greyson  fired  in 
one  after  another,  maybe  landing  a  dozen  'bout  as 
heavy  as  a  tired  lightweight. 

"  Greyson  was  wild  to  put  in  a  finisher,  but  he 
was  panting  like  a  lizard,  his  legs  was  wabbly  and 
his  eyes  glassy.  While  Puffer  was  getting  some 
pretty  stiff  punches  he'd  give  back  to  the  hardest 
ones  and  did  not  seem  to  care  for  the  lighter  ones. 
I  saw  through  his  game,  but  he  was  hot  and  weak 
all  right.  I  was  just  about  to  ask  the  scout  to  give 
them  a  minute  between  rounds.  I  looked  at  the  scout 
and  saw  he  was  betting  on  Puffer  all  right,  but  he 
didn't  understand  the  stalling.  Looked  like  he  was 
going  to  do  the  police  act  and  stop  the  milling. 
He  told  me  afterwards  he  thought  Puffer  was  about 
all  in. 

"  Crack!  and  Puffer  brought  up  square  on  the  side 
of  the  jaw  and  Greyson  took  more  than  the  count 
to  get  up.  I  saw  his  jaw  hung  crooked.  Game? 
He  come  right  in  for  more.  Chug!  down  goes  he 
again.  Up  he  come  for  more  and  weaker.  Chug! 
down  he  goes  on  one  knee  and  a  hand.  He  come  uj> 


356  The  Desert 

slow  and  set  square.  He  was  awful  weak.  They 
fiddled  a  little.  Chug!  and  down  he  went  flat  for 
the  fourth  time.  When  he  got  up  he  was  about 
twenty  foot  from  the  pool.  He  wabbled  to  it, 
jumped  in  and  came  back.  And  before  the  scout 
had  time  to  recover  from  his  surprise  they  clinched. 
I  run  up  and  shoved  my  gun  between  their  necks 
and  said: 

"  *  Break  or  I  will  blow  your  throats  out.'  I  had 
told  them  to  break  twice  before  then,  but  they  paid 
no  more  attention  than  bulldogs.  They  broke.  The 
scout  brought  his  gun  up. 

"  '  Stop !  Young  man,  go  jump  in  the  tank.' 
Puffer  walked  panting  like  a  lizard  slow  to  the  tank, 
straddled  over,  went  under,  straddled  slow  over  the 
rim,  came  back  and  set.  They  was  both  clean  now 
except  the  fresh  red.  Directly  I  saw  Greyson  back- 
ing Puffer  all  around,  Puffer  not  doing  a  thing  but 
cover.  He  looked  weak,  about  ready  to  fall,  kind  of 
sunk  down,  and  Greyson,  thinking  he  was  going, 
raved  fer  thirty  seconds.  Then  when  nobody  was 
expecting  it,  up  came  Puffer  with  a  right  square 
on  the  point  and  Greyson  fell  back,  rolled  over  two 
or  three  times,  thrashed  the  ground  and  lay  perfectly 
still. 

"  Puffer  had  put  all  he  had  in  him;  there  was  not 
a  half  ounce  left.  It  was  his  last  punch.  The  last 
inch  of  his  tape  was  out.  He  leaned  up  against  the 
wall  about  a  minute,  wabbled  pretty  straight  to  the 
pool,  began  to  wash  and  pretty  soon  came  back 
smiling.  He  hadn't  a  mark  above  his  shoulders,  but 


The  Battle  in  the  Cul-de-Sac         357 

he  was  bleeding  fresh.  It  was  the  hardest,  toughest 
fight  I  ever  saw.  They  were  equally  matched. 
Puffer's  stalling  won." 

"  You  got  your  man  fair,  pardner,"  said  the  scout 
to  Skid  as  he  came  from  the  tank.  "  What  do  you 
want  to  do  with  him?  " 

"  Give  me  my  gun."  The  scout  shook  his  head 
dubiously,  but  Lieutenant  picked  up  the  handcuffs 
and  handed  Skid  his  gun.  As  Skid  took  the  weapon 
they  were  intensely  alert;  no  one  could  tell  what 
Skid  would  do  next.  Perhaps  he  would  start  down 
the  incline  a  few  steps  further  and  pour  the  contents 
of  all  of  his  chambers  into  the  prostrate  still  un- 
conscious man.  Skid  holstered  his  gun,  and  saw  for 
the  first  time  another  young  man  in  army  uniform 
furtively  putting  away  his  gun.  He  recognized  now 
the  three  men  of  the  sky  trail. 

Skid  proceeded  to  his  pack,  caught  up  his  shackles 
and  a  paper  with  a  red  seal  on  it,  and  going  up  to 
the  scout  said: 

"  I  am  a  special  deputy  ranger  from  Tucson.  I 
have  regular  papers.  This  is  for  Robert  Greyson. 
I  came  to  get  him.  He  is  my  prisoner.  Gentle- 
men, in  the  name  of  the  law  I  call  on  you  for  assist- 
ance. Take  the  prisoner  out  to  that  saguaro;  swing 
a  blanket  shade.  Bathe  him,  clean  him  up,  and 
snap  these  ankle  chains  on.  Later  put  on  the 
cuffs." 

They  instinctively  knew  that  Skid  Puffer  was  now 
the  master  man  and  all  started  to  obey.  The  young 
men  dragged  the  insensible  man  out  and  around  the 


358  The  Desert 

end  of  the  opening.  The  scout  started  to  help,  but 
Skid  stopped  him. 

"  Wait,"  was  all  that  he  said. 

The  scout  related  these  facts  as  part  of  his  testi- 
mony: 

"  Wen  the  Lieutenants  drug  Bob  'roun'  the  en' 
of  the  entry  way  an'  out  o'  sight  I  was  pullin'  off 
my  shirt  'cause  I  was  goin'  to  help  spoil  thet  drinkin' 
water  myse'f.  It  was  all-fired  hot,  smotherin'.  I 
kind  o'  yanked  my  shirt  over  my  head  'ith  my  back 
to  'im.  Hearin'  a  queer 'soun'  es  ef  somebody  was 
s'prised,  I  whirled  'roun',  an'  I  was  lookin'  square 
into  the  peep  hole  o'  my  45  140.  Nachurly  I  wiggled 
my  han's  right  up  in  the  air. 

"  *  Lem  Greyson,  you  low-lived  dog  I  '  says  'e. 

"  Under  the  circumstances  I  wasn't  givin'  'im  any 
sass.  I  never  before  thought  thet  hole  in  my  gun  was 
so  big.  A  dog  could  hev  crawled  in  it  'thout  tetchin'. 
It  looked  shoot  sure.  I  was  s'prised  'at  the  hole 
was  so  big;  I  was  supriseder  seein'  'im  pokin'  thet 
gun  in  my  face,  an'  teetotally  scared  to  death  wen  'e 
said  '  Lem  Greyson.'  I  was  waitin'  fer  the  boys  to 
come  aroun'  worse'n  a  dyin'  man  wants  water  on 
the  trail. 

"  '  Lem  Greyson,'  he  says,  '  answer  these  questions 
fast  es  you  can  talk.  If  you  lie  or  ef  I  think  you 
lie  or  ef  the  young  men  come  aroun'  'fore  I'm  done 
talkin'  I'll  hev  to  kill  you.' 

"  I  saw  mighty  quick  I  was  in  fer  truth  45  .-40  wide 
an'  'bout  es  fast  es  a  repeater. 

"  '  Wut's  your  name?  '  he  asts. 


The  Battle  in  the  Cul-de-Sac         359 

"  *  Lem  Greyson,'  says  I,  like  a  flash  of  powder. 

"  '  Whut  relation  air  you  to  Judge  James  Grey- 
son?  ' 

"  '  Stepson  by  marriage,  none  by  breedin'.' 

"  *  Did  you  ever  steal  horses  down  Logansport 
way? ' 

"  '  I  did,'  says  I,  not  askin'  the  privilege  o'  the 
law  about  'criminatin'  myse'f. 

"  'Where's  Bob's  preacher  half  cousin?'  he  asts, 
quick  as  a  kangaroo  rat. 

"  '  Damfino,'  says  I,  quick  as  a  trigger.  I  was 
fearful  them  men  comin'  'roun'  the  en'  o'  the  entry. 

"  '  Did  you  help  put  Claire  Greyson  away  for 
good? ' 

"  '  You  can  shoot  me  all  to  any  time,  'ith 

my  han's  down,  ef  I  did.  I  liked  her.  She  liked 
me.  I  have  a  letter  in  my  trunk,  mister,  thet  aint 
mor'n  ten  years  ol'.  She  says  she  lets  me  out  from 
hidin'  her  baby.' 

"  *  Did  you  help  hide  thet  baby? ' 

"  Nen  'e  kind  o'  squatted  'at  ef  the  truth  didn't 
flow  right  then  an'  there  Lem  Greyson  was  vittals 
fer  coyotes.  I  said,  '  So  help  me  God,  mister,  I 
split  on  Bob  on  thet  baby.  I  haint  spoken  to  Bob 
till  to-day  fer  mor'n  fifteen  years.' 

"  *  One  more,'  he  says.  'Bout  then  I  braved  up 
an'  says,  '  Pardner,  ef  the  truth  is  flowin'  right  I'd 
ast  you  to  remember  them  triggers  air  hair  triggers, 
an'  mos' — tender.' 

"  *  What  has  become  of  Claire  Mason?  ' 

"  I  saw  thet  was  the  whole  question.     So  I  says 


360  The  Desert 

relieved  an'  lookin'  'im  straight  in  the  eye,  '  God  on'y 
knows.  I  don't.'  He  set  'is  gun  down  soft  and 
slow. 

'  Shake,'  'e  says.  I  wasn't  noticin'  wether  my 
han's  was  tired  er  not,  but  I  was  mighty  glad  to 
do  the  hand  act.  Nen  he  handed  me  my  gun. 

'  Who  in are  you?'  asts  I. 

"  '  Claire's  baby,'  says  he.    And  thet  was  all." 


CHAPTER  VII 
IN  SHACKLES 

SKID  PUFFER  cautioned  the  lieutenants  to  extreme 
vigilance,  begged  Second  Lieutenant  Madrid  to  at- 
tend to  his  burro  and  asked  the  scout  to  make  ar- 
rangements for  the  disposition  of  the  prisoner. 
"  Better  get  bandages,  Lem,  and  as  I  am  about 
played  out,  I'll  take  a  nap  down  there  at  my  camp. 
I  can  trust  you,  Lem?  " 

"  I'll  get  Bob  to  Fort  Yuma  ef  I  lose  my  job  for 
it.  You  can  count  on  me.  Sorry  I  didn't  know 
who  you  was  sooner  an'  saved  thet  fightin'.  He'll 
swing.  Go  to  sleep.  I'll  send  over  to  the  front, 
on'y  three  miles.  Claire's  boy  is  the  real  goods." 

Robert  Greyson  began  to  come  slowly  to  his  senses. 
Darkness  to  him  everywhere.  His  body  ached  with 
dumb  pains;  an  intolerable  odor  of  heated  grease- 
wood  was  in  his  nostrils;  flies  crawled  over  him  in 
swarms.  He  could  not  understand  where  he  was 
yet.  He  had  no  clear  sense  of  anything  save  the 
smell  of  the  greasewood,  the  tickling  feet  of  the 
flies.  What  a  hard  bed  it  was!  He  moved  and 
acute  pains  began  to  shoot  through  him,  but  there 
was  the  night  around,  no  stars,  no  cooling  air.  He 
listened  now,  for  his  senses  were  growing  more  trust- 

361 


362  The  Desert 

worthy.  He  heard  afar  as  if  in  a  dream  the  rati- 
ti-tap  of  the  woodpecker.  That  was  all.  Wood- 
peckers at  midnight!  Impossible.  Was  he  mad? 

He  felt  the  steam  now  of  wet  sands.  He  flung 
his  arm  out,  only  hot  scorching  sand  beyond  the  bed 
blanket's  edge.  How  hard  his  bed;  only  rocks  are 
less  restful  than  a  blanket  bed  on  hot  desert  sand. 
He  sat  erect  and  fiery  tortures  writhed  through  him. 
"  Water,  water,"  he  thought.  Then  it  came  back 
to  him  in  a  swift  rush  of  mental  agony  that  over- 
whelmed his  hurts.  The  fight,  whipped  almost  to 
death  with  naked  fists  by  that  wolf  trailer.  A  dread, 
indefinable,  frenzying,  made  him  cry  out  incoher- 
ently. 

Where  had  all  the  men  gone?  Why  this  silence, 
this  desertion?  Had  they,  like  Apaches,  left  him 
for  the  prey  of  wolves?  Was  he  to  starve  there? 
Who  was  this  desert  shadow  that  turned  up  in  im- 
possible places,  turned  into  flesh  and  conquering 
cruelty?  What!  midnight  and  the  heats  of  noon? 
Flies  swarming  over  him  at  dead  of  night,  and  not 
a  star  visible  in  cloudless  skies?  He  moved  his 
legs.  Shackles !  This  was  no  hideous  nightmare 
— he  was  alive,  a  prisoner. 

Would  Lem  permit  him  to  die  there? 

Robert  Greyson's  great  advocate  at  the  trial  said 
in  a  fury  of  words : 

"  When  a  man  is  dying  of  thirst  is  he  not  already 
maddened?  When  a  man  wakes  in  a  desert  mid- 
night and  finds  no  heaven  above  him,  feels  flies 
crawling  over  his  inexplicable  hurts,  is  he  not  slipping 


In  Shackles  363 

from  the  real?  When  a  man  on  a  peaceful  mission, 
in  the  name  of  the  United  States  Government,  finds 
that  he  is  being  trailed  by  a  human  wolf  and  that 
wolf  rising  up  like  a  specter  of  atrocious  cruelty  be- 
hind him,  beside  him,  before  him,  when  the  very  laws 
of  nature  seem  broken  in  twain,  is  he  not  going  mad? 
When  a  man  stricken,  gyved,  hurt  unto  death,  feels 
his  senses  slipping,  the  night  becoming  day,  the  dan- 
ger that  can  be  only  far  behind,  fearing  deadly  in 
front;  perishing  with  thirst  though  water  is  at  hand; 
free  as  air  and  alone  in  the  open  though  set  to  his 
death  as  firmly  as  the  desert  rocks;  would  not  that 
man's  soul,  gentlemen  of  the  jury,  slip  its  bearings? 
He  was  mad  then;  he  is  mad  now;  he  will  die  mad, 
though  his  previous  life  may  have  been  as  black  as 
hell  or  as  clean  as  the  soul  of  a  newborn  babe." 

Robert  Greyson  was  a  spent  mass  of  tortured  flesh 
and  broken  bones;  his  mind  wavered.  Nearly  dead, 
torpid,  as  from  a  vast  deep,  he  heard  a  voice.  Some 
one  stopped  beside  him. 

"Well,  Greyson,  how  do  you  feel?"  asked  Lieu- 
tenant Sykes.  "  Here's  some  water,  can  you  sit 
up?  "  The  broken  man  writhed  up  without  a  moan. 
He  felt  a  vessel  at  his  mouth,  drank  deep  and  re- 
vived. 

"  Here's  some  greasewood  lotion,  fine  thing  for 
fresh  wounds — keeps  flies  off.  I  spilt  the  first  bunch. 
You're  badly  used  up,  old  man;  ribs  cracked,  your 
jaw  broke.  Better  lie  down  again;  I'll  bathe  you." 
An  admiring  light  swept  through  his  face  as  he  saw 
the  flesh  quiver  and  the  muscles  writhe  without  a 


364  The  Desert 

moan  from  the  swollen  lips  as  Greyson  lay  back  on 
the  blanket. 

4  Your  peepers  are  shut."  The  Lieutenant  pulled 
the  eyelids  apart.  Greyson  mumbled. 

"What's  that,  Greyson?"  asked  the  Lieutenant 
bending  close. 

"What's  the  lay?"  he  heard. 

"  Scout  Greyson  has  gone  to  the  front  for  ban- 
dages, medicines  and  wagon.  We  go  to  Yuma  to- 
night by  wagon  on  the  trail  east  of  the  Gilas;  better 
traveled."  There  was  a  short  period  of  silence, 
a  movement  on  the  blanket,  and  Robert  Greyson 
pulled  his  eyelids  apart,  and  stared  hungrily  at  the 
young  man.  The  Lieutenant  understood,  and  was 
silent. 

"  I  won't  tell  him;  he  must  ask,"  he  thought.  He 
arose  and  went  to  the  pool  and  brought  back  a  skin 
of  water  and  doused  his  charge. 

The  vapor  rose  in  clouds.  Then  came  the  ter- 
rible smart  of  the  hideondo  wash  once  more.  Grey- 
son  struggled  up  to  a  sitting  position,  his  face  work- 
ing as  in  the  agony  of  a  woman  in  travail,  but  not 
a  moan.  The  Lieutenant  wet  his  neckcloth  and 
bound  it  round  the  sufferer's  jaws;  fanned  him  with 
his  hat,  then  helped  him  to  drink  again. 

"Where?"  came  almost  inarticulately  as  Greyson 
nodded  backward  and  turned  his  eyes  with  the  ques- 
tion. The  Lieutenant  understood. 

"  Down  at  his  camp  in  the  cactus,  asleep.  All 
regular,  Arizona  state  deputy.  Papers  all  right; 
I  read  'em."  And  the  young  officer  fanned  the 


In  Shackles  365 

flies  away  with  a  monotonous  swing  in  the  heated 
shade.  The  wounded  man  seemed  struggling  with 
another  inquiry.  The  Lieutenant  bent  his  ear 
closely. 

"Name,"  came  mumblingly. 

"  I'm  not  quite  sure.  The  scout  says  he's  the  son 
of  a  woman  named  Claire  Greyson,  daughter  of  a 
big  judge  over  in  Indiana."  Greyson  with  a  faint 
moan  sank  back  as  if  dead.  At  last  he  understood. 

When  Robert  Greyson  woke  again  he  was  only 
half  conscious.  He  heard  the  grind  of  wheels  in 
the  sand  ruts,  the  gurgle  of  water  in  the  wagon 
casque,  the  clanking  of  harness  chains,  the  inter- 
mittent screak  of  a  loose  felloe, — wondering  what 
all  this  meant.  He  was  almost  awake;  he  dimly 
saw  the  stars,  felt  the  draw  of  bandages,  smelt  the 
hot  odors  of  greasewood,  arnica  and  turpentine.  A 
wagon  jolt  awakened  him.  He  moved  his  feet,  the 
shackles  were  there  yet.  But  the  stars  did  not  blaze 
as  desert  stars  blaze.  His  eyelids  must  be  partly 
swelled  shut.  He  tried  to  lift  his  hand  to  claw  the 
lids  apart.  What!  in  handcuffs.  Broken  and  tor- 
tured as  he  was  he  flirted  to  a  sitting  position.  Ahead 
he  saw  dimly  outlined  the  bobbing  mules  to  the 
wagon,  further  onward  two  large  men,  one  huge, 
with  guns  in  leash  across  their  shoulders.  He  heard 
the  patty-pat  of  burros'  feet  on  the  trail  behind. 
There  followed  two  slim  young  men,  silent.  One 
spurred  his  brute  suddenly  and  rode  close  to  the 
tail  of  the  wagon,  his  hand  at  his  belt.  The  wagon 


366  The  Desert 

plodded  on  and  the  young  man  fell  further  behind. 
Every  living  thing  was  voiceless  as  the  mottled 
shadows  of  the  impending  Gilas. 

There  is  an  entry  in  the  little  blood-stained  note- 
book to  be  made  here.  "  Fort  Yuma,  Mil.  Res., 
Oct.  26th.  In  bed  since  arrival.  Doctor  says  out 
of  my  head.  Sort  of  overworked.  G.  recovering. 
His  jaw  and  two  ribs  broken.  Doctor  says  he's 
broken  down  for  life.  Ballard  came  over.  Swore 
out  a  Federal  warrant.  G.  will  be  taken  East  by 
U.  S.  marshal.  Go  via  San  F.  to  Chicago  if  able 
about  the  first  Nov.  Infernal  hot  here.  Lem  and 
Sykes  take  G.  first  Nov.  if  I  can't  start.  Will  wire 
first.  Doctor  just  came  in.  Says  quit  writing;  be 
easy;  throw  all  things  off  mind.  Feel  blue.  Am 
very  tired." 


CHAPTER  VIII 
WHAT  HAS  BECOME  OF  SKID  PUFFER? 

IT  was  over  two  weeks  since  we  had  received  that 
last  long  letter  from  the  Boni  water-hole.  We  had 
studied  the  map  till  almost  any  of  us  could  draw  it 
from  memory.  If  Skid  was  so  near  to  his  man 
on  the  ninth  of  October  something  must  have  hap- 
pened within  two  weeks.  We  thought  of  that  plunge 
through  the  cut-off  in  the  unmarked  desert  at  night 
and  our  hearts  asked  unceasingly,  "  What  has  be- 
come of  Skid  Puffer?" 

We  could  think  of  no  way  to  reach  him  by  wire 
or  letter.  If  he  were  lost,  who  would  know?  He 
was  out  of  touch  of  any  of  the  persons  he  had  men- 
tioned in  his  letters.  Only  Captain  Jack  Rodgers 
would  know  up  to  the  ninth  of  October.  We  began 
to  condemn  Jack  Rodgers  after  a  while.  And  the 
more  we  thought  of  his  advising  Skid  Puffer  to  start 
on  that  foolish,  dangerous  chase  across  deserts,  the 
more  bitter  we  became. 

We  had  not  been  idle  with  our  anxieties;  we  had 
not  lain  still  on  our  fears,  but  what  could  we  do  to 
lessen  our  sleepless  apprehensions?  What  effort 
should  we  make  to  lighten  the  gloom?  The  Judge 
and  I  confessed  very  bitterly  to  each  other  that  we 

367 


368  The  Desert 

had  not  had  sense  enough  to  take  the  train  instantly 
to  Tucson  when  we  got  the  letter  from  that  muddy, 
ill-smelling  water-hole  at  Boni.  Why  had  we  not 
then  telegraphed  to  Chief  Ballard  like  sensible  men? 
Ah!  why  not  a  dozen  different  things?  Now  it  was 
the  last  of  the  month  and  we  had  kept  the  wires  hot 
with  messages  of  inquiry,  which  meant  "  What  has 
become  of  Skid  Puffer?" 

The  Judge  looked  up  some  official  registers  and 
telegraphed  here  and  there.  He  recalled  at  last  that 
the  territorial  governor  was  an  old  school  friend. 
We  blessed  our  stars  when  he  thought  of  that.  The 
upshot  of  his  endeavors  was  that  Captain  Jack  was 
recalled  from  official  business  and  sent  with  trailers 
to  Boni  and  ordered  to  follow  the  trail,  follow  it  to 
Fort  Yuma  if  necessary. 

I  had  a  message  delivered  from  Tucson  to  Buenos 
Ayres  and  got  answer  that  Chief  Ballard  had  gone 
to  Fort  Yuma.  We  were  unreasoning  enough  to 
complain  among  ourselves  about  his  going  to 
Fort  Yuma.  Why  had  he  not  stayed  where  he 
belonged? 

Then  we  misdirected  telegrams  to  Yuma  City, 
Arizona!  We  asked  the  police  department  about 
Ballard,  Skid  and  Robert  Greyson, — three  telegrams 
following  each  other  about  an  hour  apart.  It  was 
now  the  first  of  November.  And  that  enlightened 
chief  of  police  sent  back  that  he  had  never  heard  of 
them  or  any  Boundary  survey.  He  also  said  that 
there  was  nothing  on  the  police  books  of  any  arrests 
of  such  men.  And  when  we  got  a  second  answer 


What  Has  Become  of  Skid  Puffer?    369 

to  the  last  telegram  we  had  sent  his  answer  was  elo- 
quently brief: 

"  Nothing  doing  at  this  end." 

We  had  been  defeated  at  every  point  and  did  not 
know  now  what  to  do.  There  was  a  family  council 
and  it  was  decided  that  I  should  take  a  special  train 
to  California.  That  would  cost  us  five  thousand 
dollars.  I  was  ready  to  start  on  the  third  day  of 
November  and  was  at  the  station  bidding  Mason, 
Tootsie  and  the  Judge  good-bye.  I  had  promised 
dire  vengeance  on  several  people  in  the  far  West  if 
I  should  get  near  them.  I  even  promised  to  hunt 
up  Papago  Charlie  and  do  something  to  him  worthy 
of  criminal  indictment. 

I  had  been  promised  that  I  should  reach  Yuma  in 
72  hours.  I  was  ready,  my  foot  on  the  steps  of 
the  coach,  the  engine  panting,  the  reporters  imperti- 
nently trying  to  uncover  the  program. 

Tootsie,  bless  her  dear  soul!  tremulously  whis- 
pered: "Though  things  look  uncertain  and  unlucky, 
I  feel  in  my  heart  that  Skid  is  coming  back." 

"  Message  for  you,  Judge,"  said  the  hatless  depot 
agent,  "  dead-headed  through  by  the  railroad."  The 
Judge  jumped  and  I,  knowing  that  at  least  one  rail- 
road train  would  not  run  off  and  leave  me  there, 
turned  and  read  the  message  with  the  Judge.  And 
Tootsie  read  it  with  us.  Though  six  reporters  tried 
to  find  out  its  contents  they  failed.  In  fact,  the 
way  the  Judge  carelessly  folded  up  the  message  in 


370  The  Desert 

his  left  hand  with  a  sort  of  aimless,  careless  twist 
of  his  fingers  astonished  me.      It  read: 

"Nov.  3d,  1 8— . 
"JUSTICE  GREYSON,  Indpls. 

'  Your  wires  Yuma  City  turned  over  to  me     Bal- 
lard  swore  Federal  warrant  Robert  Greyson  sent  lake 
department  first  deputy  marshal  Smith  others  follow 
11  Daily  Comdt.  Ft.  Yuma  Mil.  Res." 

Then  the  Judge  canceled  his  train  order,  got  a 
rebate  promise,  and  with  great  dignity  we  entered  the 
carriage  and  went  home  determined  to  study  all 
night,  if  need  be,  to  unravel  the  regular  telegraph 
code. 

It  was  midnight  when  we  had  determined  what 
the  message  meant  except,  "Others  follow."  That 
filled  us  with  the  deepest  worry.  I  recall  now  the 
pallor  of  Alice  Greyson.  She  was  wrapped  in  a 
silence  that  no  one  seemed  to  notice  except  me. 

The  others  retired  and  the  Judge  and  I  sat  to- 
gether in  the  library.  "  Others  follow  "  was  grip- 
ping our  hearts  as  no  other  two  words  had  ever 
done.  "Others  follow"?  Did  it  mean  that  since 
Skid  Puffer  could  not,  others  had  sent  that  telegram? 
In  the  letter  written  on  the  Sonora  trail  Skid  had 
said  that  if  he  could  not  make  arrangements  Chief 
Ballard  or  Captain  Jack  would!  We  recalled  that 
a  hundred  times.  Chief  Ballard  was  at  Fort  Yuma, 
California,  not  Yuma  City,  Arizona;  he  had  left 
his  headquarters  to  make  arrangements  for  sending 


What  Has  Become  of  Skid  Puffer?    371 

the  prisoner  home;  had  sworn  out  a  Federal  warrant; 
Deputy  Marshal  Smith  was  taking  the  prisoner  to 
the  U.  S.  Lake  Department  at  Chicago.  They  had 
started  on  the  first!  Yet  we  could  not  swear  to 
that.  For  a  time  we  tried  to  think  it  meant  the 
"  first  deputy  marshal "  was  coming  with  the  pris- 
oner. But  the  Judge  said  there  was  no  such  dis- 
tinction in  the  Federal  police  department  as  a  first 
deputy  marshal. 

Why  had  Daily  answered  the  telegram  of  inquiry? 
Why  had  not  Ballard  answered?  But  blackest  mis- 
giving of  all — Why  had  not  Skid  answered  it?  The 
Judge  said  to  me : 

"  Colonel  French,  we  might  as  well  face  the  in- 
evitable. There  need  be  no  false  alarms  between 
you  and  me.  '  Others  follow  '  means  just  what 
you  and  I  guess  it  means.  I  could  not  bear  to  put 
too  black  a  face  on  the  import  of  that  message. 
Skid  could  not  send  that  message  and  Ballard  had 
it  sent.  The  only  thing  we  can  do  is  to  wire  Daily. 
I  will  ask  him  who  follows." 

We  had  learned  with  mortification  that  a  state 
line  divided  our  telegraphic  inquiry  out  in  that  west- 
ern world.  The  curse  was  lifted  to  some  extent 
from  that  chief  of  police.  The  Judge  at  his  desk 
had  written  a  message,  marked  it  "  rush  "  and  tele- 
phoned it  down  to  the  office. 

The  next  day  was  a  day  of  deeper  gloom.  None 
of  us  had  the  moral  courage  to  speak  of  "  others 
follow  "  that  entire  day.  Once  I  came  alone  upon 
Alice  Greyson  half  hidden  in  the  shrubbery,  and  I 


372  The  Desert 

felt  sure  she  had  been  weeping.  She  tried  to  deceive 
me,  tried  to  deceive  herself.  She  declared  with  a 
hysterical  little  laugh  that  she  had  been  worried  like 
the  rest  of  us  so  long  that  she  feared  she  was  not 
herself  any  more. 

But  Tootsie  Greyson !  From  first  to  last  her  eyes 
shone  like  stars  of  hope;  her  voice  was  steady  and 
her  words  abounded  with  confidence.  I  wondered 
if  she  really  felt  as  brave  as  she  looked.  Yet  I  knew 
she  was  honest. 

That  waiting  for  an  answer  to  Judge  Greyson's 
telegram  to  Commandant  Daily!  There  had  been 
an  overworked  telephone  at  the  Greyson  mansion 
and  despite  the  high  position  of  the  great  Judge, 
"  Central's"  nerves  had  grown  acute.  Later  the 
wire  itself  refused  to  respond. 

Supper  was  over  and  still  no  answer  to  that 
"  rush  "  telegram.  Nine  o'clock  and  still  no  word. 
Eleven  by  the  old  clock  under  the  stairs  ticking  out 
patiently,  loudly,  on  a  silent  group  of  the  waiting 
household,  almost  sick  with  suspense.  One  by  one 
each  stole  to  bed,  all  except  the  Judge.  The  lights 
are  out  except  the  library  lamp  with  its  green  shade 
casting  a  deadly  pallor  on  the  leonine  face  of  the 
lone  watcher.  The  house  was  still.  I  retired;  as 
I  went  by  a  door  I  heard  a  woman  crying  softly  to 
herself. 

Twelve  by  the  clock.  There  is  a  tinkle  in  the 
corner;  the  Judge  jumps  to  the  telephone. 

"  Yes;  this  Judge  Greyson.  Read  it?  All  right, 
wait  till  I  get  a  pad.  Go  ahead.  What?  ''Have 


What  Has  Become  of  Skid  Puffer?    373 

been  unable'  What's  that?  All  right,  'unable  to 
learn  sorry'  Did  you  say  '  sorry  f  go  ahead,  '  will 
write.'  Is  that  all?  Oh,  the  name,  'Daily, 
Comdt.  Ft.  Yuma  Mil.  Res.'  What's  the  date? 
What?  all  right.  Now  I  will  read  it:  '  Have  been 
unable  to  learn  sorry  will  write.'  No,  you  need  not 
send  it  down ;  will  call  for  it  in  the  morning."  Then 
the  Judge  sat  down  with  his  face  in  his  hands. 

The  telephone  rang  sharply  out  in  the  grave-like 
silence  again.  The  Judge  ran  to  the  telephone,  his 
eyes  shone,  the  blood  left  his  face. 

"Yes,  this  Greyson.  Wait  till  I  get  my  pad; 
go  ahead.  '  Been  sick  got  my  man  start  home  with 
him  first  November  Lem  comes  also  am  well.  Skid.' ' 
The  Judge  slammed  the  telephone  up  without  an- 
other word.  He  sank  in  the  rocker  for  a  brief  mo- 
ment too  weak  to  stand.  We  found  afterward  that 
the  telegram  had  been  "  hung  up  "  en  route  four 
or  five  days. 

The  Judge  came  to,  sprang  for  the  stairway  and 
bounded  up  the  stairs.  At  that  very  moment  (we 
learned  after  that)  a  cell  door  was-closing  on  a  weak 
prisoner  and  two  men  were  registering  from  Arizona 
at  the  Grand. 

The  Judge  pounded  on  doors  and  was  shouting 
like  a  Comanche,  "  Skid  is  coming."  It  was  like 
a  night  call  to  arms.  There  were  clatter,  patter, 
shuffle  and  shout,  and  all  roads  led  to  the  library. 


CHAPTER  IX 
A  HERO'S  RETURN 

IN  a  minute,  more  or  less,  the  daughters,  the 
mother,  Mason  and  I,  in  all  states  of  excitement  and 
in  all  stages  of  undress,  were  in  the  library.  The 
Judge  was  at  the  telephone.  He  wanted  the  police 
department,  or  the  telephone  office,  or  the  long  dis- 
stance,  but  first  he  wanted  "  Central "  with  a  raven- 
ing hunger. 

Tootsie  Greyson  was  trolling  around  in  her  night- 
dress; Alice  was  in  the  flower  of  fashion  like  Tootsie, 
but  with  a  black  skirt  extra ;  Mrs.  Greyson,  her  white 
cheeks  pink  and  her  eyes  shining  like  stars,  was  at- 
tired in  a  gingham  wrapper  and  an  opera  cloak; 
Mason  was  demure  in  his  sockless  slippers,  some- 
thing else  and  a  long  raincoat;  I,  always  having  an 
eye  to  propriety,  had  the  Judge's  overcoat,  lovely 
but  much  obscured  pajamas  and  a  display  of  bare 
feet.  We  knew  two  things — "  Skid  was  coming  " 
and  the  Judge  wanted  "  Central."  It  was  one  of 
the  times  when  in  the  swiftest  hurry  of  life  the  tele- 
phone gets  the  devil  in  its  bosom.  When  our  hearts 
were  dancing,  when  seconds  seemed  minutes,  the  soul- 
less fluids,  the  dull  currents,  the  plugs  and  levers  and 
hooks  and  bells,  became  deaf,  blind,  voiceless.  They 

374 


A  Hero's  Return  375 

were  alive  but  in  convulsions.  They  woke  up  to 
buzz,  clatter,  tinkle,  clink,  jigger, — to  try  strong 
men's  souls.  The  telephone  bucked,  taunted  us, 
mumbled  sullenly,  roared,  then  went  into  a  torpor 
and  desert-like  silence. 

Some  four  thousand  telephone  subscribers,  perhaps 
more,  all  wanted  "  Central  "  and  all  were  trying  to 
talk  at  the  same  time  at  that  midnight  hour.  The 
Judge  was  pressing  the  receiver  with  great  violence 
somewhere  in  the  left  temporal  region,  and  was 
shouting,  banging  and  prancing.  The  carpet  under 
his  feet  seemed  warm.  At  last  he  got :  "  Linesbusy- 
callagen." 

We  had  been  expecting  that.  The  evidence 
pointed  that  way.  There  was  a  click  of  a  key  in 
the  front  door  that  none  of  us  in  the  library  heard. 
There  were  stealthy  footfalls  on  the  hall  floor. 
Happy  glowing  eyes  peered  at  the  Greyson  telephone 
full  dress  rehearsal  through  a  crack  in  the  library 
door. 

Skid  Puffer,  spick  and  span,  walked  in. 

There  was  a  fiercely  joyful,  feminine  scream  and 
Tootsie  was  locked  around  Skid's  neck.  Alice, 
screaming  and  fainting,  fled.  The  rest  of  us  (except- 
ing Mason)  were  trying  to  smother  the  Arizona 
special  deputy.  His  bulk  and  his  recent  experi- 
ences in  rare  atmospheres  may  have  preserved  his 
life. 

And  while  we  tugged  at  Skid  Puffer  and  swamped 
him  with  affectionate  attention,  while  we  noisily  bom- 
larded  him  with  joyful  exclamations  and  flying  ques- 


The  Desert 

tions,  Mason,  white  and  still  and  neglected,  sat 
sunken  deep  in  a  library  chair  in  the  corner. 

The  Judge  and  I  had  been  planning  for  a  month 
how  we  should  introduce  Skid  Puffer  to  his  father. 
That  would  be  a  delicate,  even  dangerous  affair.  We 
now  fully  comprehended  the  deadly  enmity  of  the 
son.  He  had  traveled  through  perils  to  punish  one 
of  his  enemies  and  he  might  do  something  as  des- 
perate to  the  other.  We  were  not  excuusing  or 
explaining  him;  we  took  the  facts  as  we  knew  them. 
We  had  planned  the  words  we  should  say;  thought 
out  the  persuasion  we  should  bring;  we  would  cau- 
tiously deliver  the  truth  by  degrees.  Had  we  known 
of  the  affair  at  Las  Tinajas  Altas  we  should  have 
been  almost  overwhelmed  with  the  difficulties  of  the 
case. 

Mason  sat  there  for  perhaps  ten  minutes  on  the 
edge  of  a  volcano.  He  knew  what  his  son  believed 
of  him  and  was  as  fearful  of  the  results  as  the  rest 
of  us.  It  is  possible  that  the  Judge  and  I  had 
brought  out  too  darkly  the  danger  of  the  proposed 
meeting.  Three  of  us  knew,  or  believed,  when  Skid 
understood  he  would  be  friendly  to  his  father.  But 
it  would  not  be  strange  at  all  believing  this  man  to 
be  one  of  the  murderers  of  his  mother,  he  should 
leap  on  him  and  throttle  him  in  that  library  chair. 

When  Skid  saw  Mason,  he  shook  himself  free 
from  clinging  embraces  and  stared.  Mason's  face 
was  white.  Suddenly  the  room,  from  being  joyful 
with  happy  voices,  became  ominously  still.  The 
Judge  rose.  I  do  not  believe  that  Skid  Puffer  saw 


A  Hero's  Return  377 

his  secret  trembling.  I  sat  simply  helpless,  nerve- 
less. Tootsie  Greyson's  face  was  snowy. 

"  I  beg  pardon  of  all  of  you,  but  who — who  is  this 
gentleman?  "  Skid  asked.  I  thought  then  and  think 
now  that  his  voice  was  unpleasant,  his  glance  that  of 
personal  injury. 

"  Ah,  my  boy,  we  had  forgotten.  This  is — er," 
the  Judge  stopped  but  quickly  recovered.  "  This 
man,  Skid, — why,  I  am  not  going  to  introduce  you 
till  I  explain  a  little.  Then  you  will  be  as  happy  in 
knowing  him  as  we  are." 

Mason  had  risen  and  stood  facing  his  son. 

"  When  Colonel  French  was  East  on  this  same 
case,  you  understand — his  investigations  brought  him 
across  this  gentleman.  He  is  now  a  member  of  our 
family.  He  has  been  deeply  wronged,  just  as  you 
have  been.  He  is  another  victim  of  Bob  Greyson. 
He  has  been  wronged  as  cruelly,  as  unbelievably, 
as  you  have,  Skid.  That's  the  reason  we  have  been 
planning  about  his  meeting  you.  Colonel  found  that 
Bob  got  him  in  Sing  Sing  for  two  terms  of  fifteen 
and  ten  years  for  crimes  of  which  he  is  perfectly 
innocent.  We  know  all  about  it.  We  have  the 
evidence,  the  transcripts  of  the  testimony  and  the 
other  legal  papers.  This  man  here  has  been  in 
prison  altogether  nearly  nineteen  years.  Bob  Grey- 
son  did  it. 

"  Through  this  man  alone  we  have  got  the  evi- 
dence that  Bob  is  guilty  of  the  crime  of  Claire's 
disappearance.  The  thing  we  proved  while  you  were 
gone  is  this:  This  man's  wife  was  murdered  and 


378  The  Desert 

Claire  was  murdered  by  Bob  Greyson  and  his  half 
cousin,  that  preacher  out  there  at  Puffer's.  Those 
two  did  it  and  saddled  it  off  on  him.  There  is  no 
doubt,  Skid,  that  our  friend  here,"  the  Judge  had 
taken  Skid  by  the  hand  and  led  him  a  short  step 
towards  Mason, — "  we  have  the  evidence,  we  know 
there  can  be  no  doubt  that — "  and  the  Judge  came 
to  a  full  stop.  I  came  to  my  senses  then.  I  stepped 
quickly  up  to  Skid. 

"  It's  my  turn  now,  Skid,  the  Judge  has  promised 
me  this  pleasure.  I'm  to  make  the  introduction  of 
this  man  who  is  now  a  beloved  member  of  this 
family."  The  Judge  said  afterwards  that  I  was 
smiling,  and  looking  as  gracefully  cool  as  ice. 

"We  have  found  him  to  be — as  innocent  as  a 
child  of  any  wrong.  Skid,  step  up."  They  were 
face  to  face  and  took  each  other's  hands !  Tootsie 
came  up  and,  looking  happy,  expectant,  stood  close 
by  Skid.  I  believe  it  was  Tootsie  more  than  any  one 
else  who  assured  Skid. 

"  Your  father,  Skid — Charles  A.  Mason." 

Just  then  Alice  came  in.  Skid  dropped  his  father's 
hand,  took  her  in  his  arms  and  kissed  her  half  a 
dozen  times.  Yes;  it  was  a  most  emotional  occasion. 


CHAPTER  X 
THE  CURTAIN  FALLS 

WE  went  to  bed  after  the  breakfast  bell  had 
tinkled.  Our  new  day  commenced  after  luncheon, 
at  two  o'clock.  We  got  together  in  the  parlor  later 
and  revived  a  thousand  scenes  and  memories.  We 
were  so  at  peace  with  the  world  that  we  began  to 
forgive  several  people  that  were  guilty  of  western 
crimes.  First,  we  absolved  the  chief  of  police  whom 
we  had  not  met.  We  agreed  to  sentence  Papago 
Charlie  to  the  shortest  term,  and  unanimously  recom- 
mended him  to  the  mercy  of  the  Court. 

We  had  that  ready  American  impulse  to  pass  the 
hat  for  Chief  Ballard,  and  after  comparing  numerous 
aspects  of  the  testimony,  concluded  that  Captain  Jack 
after  all  was  not  so  black  as  he  had  been  painted 
by  the  inhabitants  of  Indianapolis.  We  determined 
at  once  that  the  telegraph  company  was  not  entitled 
to  the  respect  of  any  white  man.  We  agreed  that 
"  Central  "  still  needed  looking  into,  and  that  some 
telegraph  managers  stood  near  the  limits  of  our 
vengeance. 

My  neglected  affairs  called  from  Chicago.  It 
was  now  Tuesday,  and  I  left  them  promising  to  be 
back  Saturday  night.  When  I  returned  I  found  that 

379 


380  The  Desert 

Skid  had  been  alone  most  of  the  time  in  his  room. 
He  had  been  "  sleeping  and  was  to  catch  up,"  they 
told  me. 

I  was  shocked  at  the  change  in  some  family  ar- 
rangements. Mason  and  Lem  were  the  guests  of 
Angelina  Puffer,  and  Skid  was  occupying  his  old 
rooms.  The  Judge  was  cold  towards  Lem,  and 
Skid,  so  far  as  I  could  learn,  did  not  manifest  undue 
warmth  toward  his  father.  They  told  me  that  Skid 
had  lain  two  weeks  between  life  and  death  at  Fort 
Yuma. 

On  an  early  Sunday  morning  in  that  November 
when  the  weather  was  like  October  at  its  best,  Skid 
came  down  to  me  on  the  veranda,  serenely  erect  and 
happy.  He  was  himself  again.  He  had  aged  a 
year  or  two;  the  look  of  maturity  had  fully  come. 
There  was  not  a  hint  of  the  boy  of  the  swamp. 

So  far  as  I  knew  we  were  the  only  ones  astir  on 
that  sun-filled  November  morning. 

After  the  morning  salutations  I  told  him  that  on 
the  day  following  it  would  be  necessary  to  rearrange 
our  guardianship  affairs.  We  talked  business  a  few 
minutes,  then  I  said:  "  I  suppose  now,  Skid,  you  will 
be  quiet  for  a  while.  You  ought  to  take  a  rest. 
I  am  just  as  happy  as  you  are.  You  have  done  right 
in  all  this  so  far  as  I  know.  Now — let  up.  Get 
ready  for  some  college." 

"  Colonel,"  said  he  tensely,  the  happy  light  going 
out  of  his  face,  "  there's  one  more  to  get  yet.  I 
am  going  to  get  him." 

And  a  black,  fierce  shadow  of  his  past  reached 


The  Curtain  Falls  381 

over  ominously  into  his  great  future  and  filled  me 
with  prophetic  fears. 

Just  then  we  saw  Alice,  dressed  in  pink,  walking 
across  the  lawn  toward  a  seat  beside  the  tennis 
grounds.  It  was  unusual  for  a  fashionable  miss  to 
be  up  so  early  on  a  Sunday  morning.  We  watched 
her  in  her  straightaway  flight.  We  had  a  right  to, 
for  she  was  in  the  line  of  vision.  If  a  young  maiden, 
beautiful  and  fresh,  attired  in  some  sort  of  pink 
iridescence,  wished  to  be  up  and  out  on  an  early 
Sunday  morning,  when  other  fashionable  maidens  in 
bedraggled  locks  and  yellowish  faces  were  yawning 
before  their  glasses,  she  certainly  could  not  object  to 
being  looked  at. 

She  proceeded  straight  to  the  bench,  sat  down  and 
crossed  her  knees.  She  seemed  very  comfortable. 
She  did  not  see  us;  did  not  look  our  way. 

I  recalled  that  I  had  business  of  urgent  importance 
in  my  room.  There  are  times  when  business  may 
be  business,  even  on  a  glorious  October  morning  in 
November. 

A  moment  later  I  had  to  look  out  of  my  window. 
I  do  love  a  beautiful  Sabbath  October  morning  in 
November.  What  sort  of  a  day  was  it  going  to  be 
anyway?  I  looked  at  the  skies  and  then  at  the 
earth,  and  I  saw  quite  by  accident  that  Alice  Grey- 
son  sat  on  the  bench  and  that  Skid  was  with  her. 
Yes;  she  looked  very  comfortable. 

The  morning  was  delicious,  so  was  the  view — very 
delicious.  I  leaned  my  elbows  on  the  viny  window- 
sill,  looked  away  across  the  green  clothed  hills,  on 


382  The  Desert 

the  nearer  meadows,  on  the  adjacent  tennis  grounds, 
and  naturally  at  the  bench.  Before  I  viewed  the 
further  scene  again  I  disinterestedly  noted  that  the 
ex-deputy  Arizona  sheriff  was  teasing  Alice  Greyson. 
He  had  been  guilty  of  that  before.  I  think,  too, 
on  the  very  same  bench. 

Colonel  French,  ex-detective,  rose  up  and  pulled 
down  the  blind. 

An  hour  or  two  after  I  saw  Skid  Puffer  with  a 
worried  look  on  his  fine  face  and  Alice  Greyson  with 
a  flame  of  joy  on  hers,  slipping  into  the  Greyson 
library  where  her  parents  were. 


THE  END 


ALGERNON  BLACKWOOD'S 
THE  EDUCATION  OF  UNCLE  PAUL 

By  the  author  of  "JOHN  SILENCE."     I2mo. 

How  Uncle  Paul,  a  bachelor  of  forty-five,  returns  to  England 
after  years  spent  in  the  Canadian  woods.  How  his  nephews  and 
nieces  taught  him  many  things,  and  Nixie  led  him  to  "  the  crack 
between  yesterday  and  to-morrow,"  a  book  full  of  sympathy 
with  Nature,  poetic  feeling,  and  a  cheery  optimism.  One  of 
the  best-known  American  critics  who  saw  the  advance  sheets 
writes,  "  There  is  a  mixture  of  Wordsworth's  '  Ode '  and  '  Peter 
Pan'  in  the  book." 

THE  SPECTATOR  (London):  "Marked  by  a  sense  of  beauty  and  a  wealth  of 
poetic  invention.  .  .  .  Under  Uncle  Paul  s  burly  exterior  there  is  the  mind  of  a 
mystic,  a  student  of  Blake,  and  a  nature-worshipper.  .  .  .  Uncle  Paul,  fearful 
of  being  misunderstood,  plays  the  part  of  the  elderly  uncle.  .  .  .  But  the 
children  .  .  .  penetrate  his  self-protective  armour.  .  .  .  Nixie,  who  in- 
herits her  strange  gifts  from  her  father,  a  poet  and  visionary,  is  the  high  priest- 
ess of  these  blameless  mysteries,  and  under  her  guidance  Uncle  Paul,  her 
little  brother  and  sister,  and  their  pet  dogs  and  cats,  escape  .to  the  heart  of 
cloudland,  to  the  birthplace  of  the  winds,  and  to  other  wonderful  enchanted 
regions  where  time  is  not  and  joy  is  unceasing.  .  .  .  There  is  humour,  too, 
in  the  way  in  which  Uncle  Paul  leads  his  double  life  ...  an  uncommon 
book.  Mr.  Blackwood  specialises  in  recondite  experiences  and  emotions,  but 
he  can  draw  ordinary  people  with  a  sure  hand,  and  he  has  an  extraordinarily 
acute  appreciation  of  the  mystery,  the  affectation,  and  the  aloofness  of  cats. 
We  are  not  at  all  sure  that '  Mrs.  Tompkyns '  is  not  the  most  wonderful  person 
in  the  book." 


SARAH   M.  H.  GARDNER'S   QUAKER  IDYLS 

Enlarged  Edition.     i6mo,  probable  price,  $1.00  net. 

Original,  sometimes  pathetic,  and  often  humorous  character 
sketches. 

These  little  tales  portray  The  Friends  in  all  their  purity  and 
simplicity. 

The  present  edition  is  the  sixth.  The  titles  of  the  earlier 
idyls  are:  "Twelfth  Street  Meeting,"  "A  Quaker  Wedding," 
"  Two  Gentlewomen,"  "  Our  Little  Neighbors,"  "  Pamelia  Tewks- 
bury's  Courtship,"  "Some  Antebellum  Letters  from  a  Quaker 
Girl,"  "  Uncle  Joseph,"  and  "  My  Grandame's  Secret." 

The  new  idyls  are  called :  "A  Homely  Tragedy "  and  "  An 
Unconscious  Disciple  of  Thespis." 

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WIILLAM  DE  MORGAN'S  IT  NEVER  CAN  HAPPEN  AGAIN 

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and  of  the  affairs  of  a  successful  novelist.  Fourth  printing. 

$1-75- 

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WILLIAM  DE  MORGAN'S  SOMEHOW  GOOD 

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"Our  older  novelists  (Dickens  and  Thackeray)  will  have  to  look  to  their 
laurels,  for  the  new  one  is  fast  proving  himself  their  equal.  A  higher  quality 
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Transcript. 

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"If  the  reader  likes  both  'David  Copperfield'  and  'Peter  Ibbetson,'  he 
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WILLIAM  R.  HEREFORD'S   THE    DEMAGOG 

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I2tno,  $1.50. 

"  Instinct  with  the  life  of  to-day,  and  parts  of  this  story  are  re- 
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feet.  .  .  .  The  chapter  entitled  '  Wormwood '  is  a  remarkable  pic- 
ture .  .  .  worthy  to  stand  by  itself  as  a  human  vignette  portrayed 
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"  Distinctly  a  tale  for  the  times.  As  a  discussion  of  current  politics 
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WILSON  VANCE'S  BIG  JOHN   BALDWIN 

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the  period." — The  Outlook. 

"  Is  an  admirable  historical  romance,  full  of  interest  and  charm, 
and  bubbling  with  genuine  humor." — WILLIAM  LYON  PHELPS,  Pro- 
fessor of  English  Literature  at  Yale. 

HENRY     HOLT     AND     COMPANY 

34  WEST  33D  STREET  NEW  YORK 


By    JOSEPH    B.    AMES 

Western  stories  for  boys  from  10  to  16  years 
ILLUSTRATED  BY  VICTOR  PERARD.  Each,  $1.50 

PETE,  COW  PUNCHER 

Perhaps  nowhere  else  can  a  more  faithful  picture,  ab- 
solutely devoid  of  straining  for  glamor,  be  found  of 
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"Here  is  the  real  thing— the  cowboy's  daily  life  faithfully  de- 
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Yet,  while  there  is  not  a  prig  among  the  characters,  most  of  them 
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"Wholesomely  exciting  .  .  .  stands  for  real  manliness." — Chris- 
tian Register, 

THE  TREASURE  of  the  CANYON 

A  story  of  adventure  in  Arizona.    $1.50 

Dick  Carew,  a  likable  young  fellow  of  sixteen,  joins 
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of  the  Grand  Canyon  of  the  Colorado.  Their  sub- 
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most  captious  boy  reader. 

"  A  bright,  wholesome  book  .  .  .  full  of  the  joy  of  youth  .  .  . 
well-written,  readable." — Louisville  Courier-Journal. 

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NOVELS    BY    EVA    LATHBURY 


THE   SINKING   SHIP 

A  notable  new  novel  of  theatrical  life.  "  The  Sinking  Ship  " 
is  the  title  of  a  play  with  which  Vanda  Conquest,  a  popular 
actress,  endeavors  to  buoy  up  her  waning  fortunes.  She  is  a 
fascinating  figure,  and  her  placid  actor-husband  and  the 
aggressive  young  dramatist  are  other  vital  characters  in  vivid 
scenes  of  the  players'  lives  on  and  off  the  stage.  $1.50. 

"  A  far  more  complicated  and  ambitious  tale  than  most  of  those 
dealing  with  stage  life.  ...  It  deals  with  vital  things  in  a  very 
vital  fashion.  .  .  .  Interesting  and  worth  reading." — Boston  Transcript. 

"  It  is  a  novel  of  unusual  power  .  .  .  highly  impressive.  I  think 
the  book  is  not  only  an  extremely  fine  novel,  but  that  it  will  do  an 
immense  amount  of  good.  Everyone  ought  to  read  it." — Professor 
William  Lyon  Phelps  of  Yale. 

"  A  story  of  theatrical  life  that  is  very  different  in  both  matter 
and  spirit  from  the  usual  novel  about  the  stage  .  .  .  keen  penetration 
and  merciless  portrayal  .  .  .  vivid  scenes." — New  York  Times'  Satur- 
day Review. 

"  A  very  difficult  feat  .  .  .  achieves  its  result  to  a  praiseworthy  de- 
gree ...  it  has  the  strength  of  reality." — The  Nation. 

"  Distinctly  is  a  novel  of  power  and  promise  .  .  .  she  has  keen 
human  insight." — Chicago  Record-Herald. 


THE    LONG   GALLERY 

A  romance  dominated  by  the  influence  of  dead  ancestors 
whose  pictures  hang  in  the  Long  Gallery  of  Southern  Court 
in  England,  with  which  mingles  the  glamour  of  the  days  spent 
in  the  old  playroom  at  the  Court.  $1.50. 

"  Those  weary  of  the  banalities  of  current  fiction  will  greatly  enjoy 
it." — Providence  Journal. 

"  It  holds  a  distinct  place  among  recent  fiction.  There  is  material 
enough  for  several  plots  .  .  .  well  told,  it  shows  creative  power, 
imagination,  sincerity." — Outlook. 

"  Remarkably    fascinating." — Philadelphia   Ledger. 

"  A  story  of  unusual  quality,  written  with  uncommon  distinction  of 
style  .  .  .  the  dialogue  is  keen  and  vivid.  .  .  .  The  book  will  hold 
the  discriminating  reader  as  much  by  its  finesse  of  style  as  its  in- 
teresting play  and  interplay  of  characters." — New  York  Times  Review. 

"  Singularly  enjoyable.  A  spontaneous  wit,  a  fascinating  play  of 
idea  upon  idea  make  excellent  reading." — Chicago  Tribune. 

"  Griselda  fought  a  good  fight  and  the  manner  of  it  is  worth  the 
reading." — Boston  Transcript. 

" '  The  Long  Gallery '  is  equally  remarkable  in  its  English  and  in 
its  personages." — The  Living  Age. 

HENRY     HOLT     AND     COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS  NEW  YORK 


BOOKS   THAT   CHEER 

By  CHARLES  BATTELL  LOOMIS 

Uniform  12mo.     Each,  $1.25. 

A  HOLIDAY  TOUCH 

And  other  tales  of  dauntless  Americans. 

This  volume  consists  chiefly  of  anecdotes  of  Americans  who 
won  out  smiling ;  among  them  are  A  Study  in  Optimism, 
Buffum  and  the  Cannibals,  Uncle  Eli's  Induced  Ambegris,  A 
Dinner  to  Paul,  With  a  Money  King  to  Back  Me,  and  several 
delightful  burlesques,  including  The  Only  Vice  of  Awful  Adkins 
and  A  Coat  of  Alpaca,  while  a  brace  of  Christmas  stories  in 
highly  contrasted  veins  open  and  close  the  book.  Despite  the 
extravagance  of  the  situations  there  is  often  a  touch  of  quiet 
pathos. 

POE'S   RAVEN  IN  AN   ELEVATOR 

Being  a  later  edition  of  "More  Cheerful  Americans."  Illus- 
trated by  Mrs.  Shinn  and  others. 

Eighteen  humorous  tales  in  the  vein  of  the  author's  popular 
"Cheerful  Americans,"  with  a  dozen  equally  humorous  pictures, 
six  of  them  by  Florence  Scovel  Shinn.  To  these  is  appended 
a  delightfully  satirical  paper  on  "How  to  Write  a  Novel  for 
the  Masses." 

N.  Y.  Times  Review:  "  Really  funny.  You  have  to  laugh — laugh  sud- 
denly and  unexpectedly." 

Chicago  Record-Herald:  "There  is  enough  of  the  Stockton  flavor  in  thjs 
volume  to  make  it  deserve  a  new  career  in  its  fresh  dress.  The  book  is 
pleasantly  illustrated." 

Washington  Star:  "Each  one  of  them  is  a  blessing.  It  will  aid  diges- 
tion, induce  health,  and  add  to  the  joy  of  the  living." 

CHEERFUL   AMERICANS 

Illustrated  by  Mmes.  Shinn,  Cory,  and  others. 

Seventeen  humorous  tales,  including  three  quaint  automo- 
bile stories,  and  the  "Americans  Abroad"  series,  "The  Man 
of  Putty,"  "Too  Much  Boy,"  "The  Men  Who  Swapped  Lan- 
guages," "Veritable  Quidors,"  etc. 

N.  Y.  Times  Saturday  Review  says  of  one  of  the  stories:  "It  is  worthy 
of  Frank  Stockton."  The  rest  of  the  notice  praises  the  book. 

N.  Y.  Tribune:  "He  is  unaffectedly  funny,  and  entertains  us  from 
beginning  to  end." 

Nation:  "The  mere  name  and  the  very  cover  are  full  of  hope.  .  .  . 
This  small  volume  is  a  safe  one  to  lend  to  a  gambler,  an  invalid,  a  hypo- 
chondriac, or  an  old  lady;  more  than  safe  for  the  normal  man." 

HENRY     HOLT     AND     COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS  NEW  YORK 


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